


Red Velvet

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: A/U, Anger, Baked Goods, Bisexuality, Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Expression of bisexual phobia/hatred, F/M, Friendship, Grief, HIV/AIDS, Het, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, alternative universe, situational depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 68,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Mitchell’s company, "Desserts After Dark," delivers fine cupcakes and pastries to the eclectic elite of Kings County (Brooklyn). Peter Burke, former FBI agent and one of the senior partners in the accounting firm of Hughes, Burke, is the bakery’s most loyal customer. But it’s not all fluff and cream cheese icing when he falls for Neal Caffrey, the Chief Baking Officer of Desserts After Dark. Peter has some serious issues from his past to deal with, and their road to happiness isn’t guaranteed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: My deepest thanks to angelita26, who made an innocuous comment in the wcwu chat one evening about the custom painted dessert delivery van she had just seen in her neighborhood. One thing lead to another and the next thing I knew, I had the start of my White Collar Big Bang story. 
> 
> theatregirl7299 and miri_thompson also deserve extra-special recognition. Not only were they heroic alpha and beta readers, they gave me flawless story advice, held my hand, wipe my brow and listened to me whine about this for half the summer. I can’t thank them enough.
> 
> A special shout out to rabidchild for her help with cake. Many more thanks to all of the ladies of the nightly chats who’ve cheered me on and helped me over the bumps. You’re the best!
> 
> And very special thanks to my wonderful artist, kanarek13 for the cover and all of the incredible banners and icons. Her creative talent is without peer. Please remember to go here and tell her how awesome she is.
> 
> Of course, I don’t own White Collar or the characters portrayed therein. White Collar is the property of Fox Television Studios and USA Networks

He shouldn’t do it. He knew that. It was becoming a habit. An addiction. And while he could reason with himself that there were worse things to be addicted to than red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, there were better things, too. Like carrot sticks and celery and cucumber, or maybe fresh kale.

But (and this was the devil sitting on his shoulder), it was just once a week. Friday night. And he always spent a few hours on Saturday at the gym. The calories weren’t converting into a spare tire or man-boobs or anything quite so repulsive.

And he could give them up any time. It wasn’t as if he _had_ to have one every Friday night. After all, he did just fine on the third Friday of the month, at his poker game. And on the all too frequent Friday nights when he needed to schmooze with clients or go out of town for business. Or on the rare Friday night when he had a date.

Tonight, though, wasn’t one of those times. He was alone by choice and he would have a reasonably healthy dinner. So why the hell shouldn’t he get a couple of cupcakes delivered?

Peter refreshed the order page for _Desserts After Dark_. It seemed that they were all out of red velvet cupcakes. That was okay, really. Their double-devil’s food with cayenne vanilla buttercream was a good alternative. He clicked on the order, only to find that they were out of that one, too.

And out of every other cupcake.

Peter sighed and back-buttoned to the list of desserts available for delivery. He liked cupcakes, they were perfectly portioned, and since he had to order two, he’d have one tonight, the other on Sunday. But he was flexible. He could get a brownie or a blondie or even a few cookies. Just something sweet and fresh and tasty.

But the list of available offerings was unusually short – mostly just fancy cakes and tarts – which troubled Peter. Was Desserts After Dark having bakery problems? Moz, the delivery driver – a strange individual if he ever met one – had once hinted that the baker was a temperamental sort. Almost ready to give up on his Friday night indulgence, Peter scrolled to the bottom of the page. There was a new banner, “All cakes available for delivery by the slice.”

And wouldn’t you know, there was a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting. The slice was the same price as a cupcake. Which meant that he either had to eat half of the ten dollar minimum delivery charge or order a second slice. Honestly, getting a second slice wasn’t a hardship, especially since there was double devil’s food available.

Peter placed the order, filled out the particulars, specifying delivery sometime between 9 and 10:30 tonight and actually felt his mouth water as his payment was processed. He was pathetic, getting this excited about a couple of slices of cake.

“Boss?”

Peter looked up, Diana was at his door. “What have you got?”

She handed him a file. “The subpoenas for the Pedersons’ audit have been quashed.”

“At least for this week.”

Diana grinned. “Yeah, but it gets me off the hook for document production this weekend. To celebrate, Christie and I are going out tonight. Want to join us?”

“Since your usual haunt is _Henrietta Hudson_ , I think I’ll pass.”

“I’m sure they’ll be a few boys there, too. There always are. Besides, it’s got to be better than hanging out at home alone, with your cupcakes and an early season Yankees game.”

Peter gave her a mock glare. “Don’t you be dissing my team, Ms. Berrigan.”

“Or your cupcakes?”

“No cupcakes tonight.”

“Going cold turkey?”

“Nah – the bakery’s out of them. I’m getting a couple of slices of cake delivered instead.” Diana, once she found out about his Friday night pastry habit, hadn’t stopped teasing him. And was remarkably indiscrete about it.

“You’d really rather hang out alone?”

“I think the question is, would I’d rather spend my Friday night by myself with good baseball and delicious cake than spend the evening watching you and Christie get all lovey-dovey? Would I rather do that than be mocked by every high-earning lesbian in Manhattan and get the stink eye from twenty-something twinks wearing jeans so tight I can tell their religion? The answer is yes. Most definitely yes.”

Diana held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, then. But if you change your mind…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“But if you do, just text me.”

“Okay, now get out. I still want your report on the Henderson account before the end of the day.”

“Slave driver.”

“Slacker.”

“You wish.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

“What are you, thirteen?” Peter retorted.

Diana laughed as she went back down to her office. Peter smiled and shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. She had been fresh out of B-school, so bright and shiny and new it almost hurt to look at her. He really didn’t need to supervise yet another junior associate, but he knew her father and he owed the man a favor.

Within a week she proved her worth – and in a field where it was kill or be killed, at least until you made partner, Diana Berrigan already had her fair share of scalps on her belt. She’d been bringing business for a few years, managing her own client list, but she still watched his back and called him boss.

He turned his attention back to the audit letters he was reviewing, wishing that all his staff was half as bright as Diana. They might all be Ivy League grads and pretty damn smart, but some of them didn’t have a lick of common sense.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Neal, where are the cupcakes?”

Her baker held up a hand with a cell phone and made a shushing gesture. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, foot tapping in annoyance. She had no issue with Neal talking on the phone; she did have an issue with him refusing to bake the company’s signature desserts.

“Sara, please – I promise not to bring you anymore devil’s food cake.”

El’s annoyance faded. Neal was talking with Sara and he sounded heartbroken. It was all she could do not to grab the phone out of his hand and give that girl a piece of her mind.

“Please, come home …” Neal was begging now, and Neal never begged. “Sara – “

She must have hung up because Neal just stood there; his shoulders slumped, staring at the now-dark screen on his phone. He finally looked up. “She’s not coming back to New York, El.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She hugged him, not caring that her clothes would be covered in flour and confectioner’s sugar. “She’s not the one for you.”

Neal sniffed. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not being mean, just pointing out that you’re a good man who deserves to be loved for who you are.”

“Sara …”

“Doesn’t love you.”

Neal bristled at her.

“She doesn’t – she’s beautiful and smart and talented and from the moment the two of you got together, she tried to change you. And you tried to change her.”

Neal got that sulky little boy look that never failed to affect her. It also made Elizabeth want to slap him upside the head. “We could have been good together.”

“Yes, maybe. But you’re a world-class pastry chef and Sara Ellis is a supermodel. Those are two incompatible professions. She knows that she needs to wear a size zero if she’s going to stay on top of her career, while you have a near-pathological need to fatten her up.”

“She’s too thin.” Neal muttered.

“You might think that, I might think that, but the editors at Vogue and Elle and a dozen other magazines think she’s perfect. And since they pay her bills, they’re the voices that count.”

“Heidi Klum doesn’t wear a size zero.”

She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “Heidi Klum doesn’t need to. Sara’s still got a ways to go before getting to that point.” El sighed. “Now – enough with your love life. Where are my cupcakes?”

If anything, Neal got even sulkier. “I hate cupcakes.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Neal. Cupcakes sell.”

“Cupcakes are for cretins.”

“No, they aren’t. Your cupcakes pay _my_ bills. And your salary.”

“Cupcakes are pedestrian. There’s no artistry in cupcakes.”

She disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But El took a different tack with him. “There’s no crying in baseball, either. But it’s irrelevant. Cupcakes make people happy. Happy people are repeat customers. Repeat customers are happy customers that tell their friends about the amazing cupcakes at Desserts After Dark.”

“They should be talking about my amazing pastries, instead, the linzer tortes and sacher tortes and opera cakes and financiers and genoises. My tiramisu should be the talk of Brooklyn, not some ridiculous red velvet cupcake with a pouf of frosting on it.”

“Your red velvet cupcake is the best in the entire city. If not the whole country. And what’s wrong with giving people what they like?” She knew that nothing was going to break through to Neal while he was in this mood. The man was talented and rarely this temperamental, but Sara’s relocation two months ago had shaken his confidence. She only wished that his bad mood didn’t have such an effect on her bottom line.

“It’s not like we don’t have red velvet cake on hand.”

“And I’ve already put up the banner on the website letting customers know that we’ll deliver individual slices.”

“Which you know I hate. Cutting into a cake is an …”

“Experience like sex. Getting a pre-cut slice of cake is like watching pornography. You’ll get off, but it’s not as good as the first-hand experience.”

Neal rolled his eyes at her. This time she did slap him, lightly – on his right temple. “Okay, okay – I’ll make your damn cupcakes.”

“And they’ll be the best damn cupcakes in Brooklyn, right?”

“In the whole damn city.”

El kissed his cheek, or that was where she was aiming. Except that Neal turned his head at the right moment and their lips met. He tasted of vanilla and chocolate and lemon. The kiss deepened and she grew a little dizzy, like a sugar rush. “Mmmm.”

They broke apart and she licked her lips. “I thought you were pining for Sara.”

“She’s not coming back.” Now there was a twinkle in Neal’s eye.

“You’re such a Casanova, Neal Caffrey.”

“And you’re a beautiful woman, Elizabeth Mitchell. And my friend.”

She gave him a push. “Go bake me some cupcakes.”

Neal actually leered at her. She should have known better than to fall for his hangdog, heart-on-his-sleeve demeanor. One moment, he was honestly convinced that Sara was his one and only, the next, he was at her door with a bottle of Bordeaux and a bouquet of roses. Which was fine – he had felt the same way about Kate, about Matthew, about Gordon. And each time Neal and his happily-ever-after broke up; he’d end up in her bed.

Which was just fine with her. They were good friends, and Elizabeth certainly enjoyed the benefits that their friendship brought.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz couldn’t help but wonder why he took this gig. He’d been wondering about that almost every night for the last three years.

But there were worse things than driving around New York’s hippest borough in a white Ford Explorer made up to look like a red velvet cupcake on one side and a slice of carrot cake on the other. Arguing with pompous jackasses about planetary orbits was one thing that came to mind. The hours weren’t bad – six PM to midnight, six nights a week. The tips were good, too – not that he needed them. The hip Brooklynites needing their pastry fixes were an unusually generous bunch, although Moz occasionally thought that if he had to see one more tattooed, neck-bearded twenty-something wearing his grandpa’s ratty cardigan and skinny jeans, he’d turn to a life of crime or maybe even defy the BHA’s edict and go back to California.

Thankfully, the most regular customer and his favorite customer, on the delivery route wasn’t a hipster. He was the opposite of hipster. Mr. Peter Burke was late-forty-something guy who lived alone in a well-restored Cobble Hill townhouse. He was a CPA and he loved the Yankees. Moz forgave him for that because he also loved red velvet cupcakes. And even though he was always casually dressed when he answered the door, Moz thought of him as the Suit. The appellation was originally born out of his own innate contempt for anyone who let themselves be captured by the system, but over the past few years, he had developed a measure of affection for him.

Peter Burke seemed like a man who should have had a dog and a wife (or a husband, if his own personal gaydar was properly functioning) and a few rug rats, but he didn’t. He lived by himself in a pricey piece of real estate, stylishly decorated in early Ikea and some amazing pieces of modern art that made his fingers itch.

It didn’t take much to figure the Suit out. The pile of mail on the entryway table gave most everything away. He was a Harvard B-school grad and fairly active in the alumni association, a senior partner in a boutique accounting firm, and a frequent (first class) traveler who preferred mid-grade beer and trendy baked goods.

Peter Burke was also a lonely man. Moz was accustomed to delivering and leaving, preferably with a hefty tip. But the Suit always wanted to engage him in conversation. He was like some overly friendly Labrador retriever, which Moz found oddly endearing.

The seventh time he dropped off the man’s order, it was pouring out, and he’d gotten soaked on the trip from the van to the front door. And found himself invited in, given a towel and cup of hot tea (though he’d been offered coffee first). When he mentioned that his vehicle was double parked, the Suit smiled and said not to worry about it.

“You would abuse your influence?” He pretended to be appalled.

“Hmmm, don’t really consider it abuse.”

“People have gone to prison for fixing parking tickets.”

“Who said anything about fixing a ticket? I just said, don’t worry about it.”

Moz glared at the man. “Don’t tell me you’d pay the ticket?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that.” He took the pastry box out of the bag, opened it and sniffed appreciatively. “Been dreaming about these beauties all day.”

“You know, that’s pretty pathetic. A grown man mooning over cupcakes.”

Burke just smiled at him. “What’s the big deal? I like ‘em – the best red velvet in New York.”

“And you’ve determined this through the scientific method?” Moz didn’t know why he felt the need to challenge the Suit’s every word.

“Hmmm, I don’t think taste can be calculated that way, but I’ve had my fair share of red velvet, and this one is the best. Perfectly moist, just the right amount of crumb, a depth to the sweetness. And the frosting…” The way he was looking at the cupcake, Moz was almost embarrassed.

“Grown men shouldn’t have such affection for baked goods.”

“If they didn’t, you’d go out of business.”

“You may be right.” Moz swallowed the last of the tea. “And sadly, I still have six more deliveries to make.” He almost didn’t expect to get a tip, between his attitude and well, the tea and towel. But the Suit surprised him. There was the usual tenner and as Moz was walking out the door, Burke handed him a large black umbrella.

Moz was tempted to refuse it, such a thing was an old symbol of the oppression of the masses by the bourgeoisie, but the rain was coming down in buckets.

“Bring it back next Friday, okay?”

He did and it was the start of a strange sort of friendship. He tried to make it a point to deliver the Suit’s cupcakes at the tail end of his delivery run, just so he could spend a few minutes chatting – actually arguing – with the man.

Except that tonight he wasn’t making any deliveries.

“Moz, you’re not going anywhere.” Neal had him cornered in El’s office. “You’re pale and sweating and your hands are shaking.”

“I am not contagious!”

“No, but you’re sick and you shouldn’t be on the road. If you crack up the van, El’s going to be very upset. And you don’t want Elizabeth upset, do you?”

Moz thought hard about that one. No, no, he definitely didn’t want to upset the lovely and ferocious Elizabeth Mitchell. “But who’ll make the deliveries?” He looked up at Neal, bleary-eyed. “Who’ll deliver the cupcakes to all those hipsters? And spend a few minutes chatting with the Suit? He needs his red velvet and conversation.” Moz knew he was getting a little delirious, but the words wouldn’t stop. “The man loves your red velvet, Neal. I think he’d make love to it if he could.”

“That’s … disturbing.”

“No – it’s really kind of cute. He’s this big-time accountant, but he’s funny and nice and …” Moz leaned in, he desperately needed to confide in someone. “I think he likes me.”

Neal, who wasn’t germophobic like him, didn’t pull back. But he did burst his fever-induced bubble. “Moz, this isn’t high school. And you’re not gay.”

“But I could be? Couldn’t I? He’s so tall. And he has a nice smile.” Moz leaned back in El’s chair, the leather felt cool against his overheated scalp. “Did I ever tell you that he lent me an umbrella?”

He closed his eyes, indulging in a fever dream of him and the Suit, walking through the streets of Brooklyn with matching black umbrellas. He vaguely heard El come in.

_“How is he?”_

_“Not great. He’s fantasizing about a customer.”_

_“Really? Which one?”_

_“Dunno – calls him ‘The Suit’. Says he’s tall and has good hair and loves my red velvet cupcakes, apparently.”_

_“Yeah – that’s one of the regulars. Peter Burke, in Cobble Hill. Been ordering cupcakes almost every Friday since we started the delivery service. Except that tonight, he’s getting cake because some baker decided that cupcakes were beneath him.”_

Moz sort of listened to his friends squabble; the words washed over him, meaningless.

_“I can make the deliveries, El.”_

_“No – you have cupcakes to bake.”_

_“You hate driving at night.”_

El did, which was one of the reasons why she hired him. But Moz was thinking that he just might sack out here for the rest of the year.

“Take Moz back to my place, get some medicine in him – and I don’t mean the type that comes in wine bottle. When he’s settled, you’ll come back here and bake cupcakes. I’ll make the deliveries.”

 _Oh, goodie. Back to El’s place. It had one big bed._ He might not score with Mr. Tall, Dark and Full Head of Hair, but El… She was even better than the Suit.

She had breasts.

It took a tremendous effort, but Moz opened his eyes. “You know, guys…”

Neal and El stared at him, both so sweet and concerned. El even ran a cool hand over his forehead (which sadly extended to the nape of his neck). “What, Mozzie?”

“It’s time to make the donuts.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was close to eleven and Peter was getting antsy. He wasn’t jonesing for his dessert, not precisely. But he was a man who appreciated order and regularity and over the last few years had become accustomed to the little guy ringing his doorbell at a quarter past ten every Friday night. He was never this late, and Peter was a little worried – mostly about the guy, but about his pastry, too.

He had just pulled up the Desserts After Dark website when the doorbell rang. It was a touch embarrassing, but his mouth watered at the thought of the treat waiting for him. _Okay, he definitely was addicted_.

Without even checking, he pulled the door open. Instead of the little guy, there was a lovely woman waiting there. She was smiling and holding the distinctive red and gold bag from Desserts After Dark.

 _Thank goodness_.

“Hi.”

“Um, hi.” Peter definitely wasn’t the type to get tongue-tied around beautiful women, but he’d been expecting Mozzie and the blue-eyed brunette was about as far from the quirky dessert delivery man as one could get.

“You must be Peter Burke, our best customer.” She held out her hand, the one without the bag.

“Um, I guess?”

“That you’re Peter Burke?” Now she was laughing at him.

“No, that I’m your best customer.”

“Well, if not our best, than our most regular and one of our most long-standing. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

They stood there, on either side of the threshold, until Peter remembered his manners. “Come in.”

The woman gave him a look and Peter felt like an idiot. She wasn’t going to enter a strange man’s house, not at this hour. “Okay – just hold on. He fished out his wallet and pulled out the customary ten dollar tip. “Here – ” He offered her the money, but she didn’t take it. The expression on her face was a little quizzical.

“I know you, I think.”

Peter shrugged. “I have that kind of face.”

“No, you don’t. I definitely know you.”

Peter really just wanted his cake but she wasn’t handing him the bag and he didn’t think it was good manners to grab it from her and slam the door shut in her face. But he took a good look again. Maybe she was right? Maybe they did know each other?

“Peter Burke, Peter Burke…” She repeated his name like a mantra. “You’re an FBI agent, right?”

“I was, but how did you know that?” He could actually see the metaphorical light bulb go on over her head, but he still didn’t recognize her.

“You once investigated the Diarmitt Gallery – about fifteen years ago, right?”

“Yes – the Diarmitt. Now I remember.” He frowned and squinted, and yes, yes, he did recognize her. “You were the assistant gallery manager.” Peter snapped his fingers, trying to remember her name. “Elizabeth – Elizabeth Michaels, right?”

She smiled, “Close – Elizabeth Mitchell.”

This time, when he asked her to come in, she crossed the threshold. “Oh, here – these are yours.”

He put the bag on the hall table, suddenly less interested in the baked goods. “How did you go from working in a posh Manhattan art gallery to delivering baked goods?”

She chuckled and there was just a touch of bitterness there. “You came, you investigated, you reported and a dozen people were fired. Some even went to jail.”

Peter remembered that case. Not only had he uncovered a massive sales tax fraud, it turned out that the gallery’s acquisitions manager was helping the mob to launder dirty money. He now recalled that the assistant manager – this woman – had been very helpful to him when she didn’t have to be. “You didn’t have any legal problems …”

“No, but I bet you don’t remember your last words to me.”

Peter shook his head. It _was_ a long time ago. It came at a time when his life was falling apart. It might have salvaged his career and established his reputation in the art world, but it also marked the beginning of the end the life he’d always dreamed of.

“You suggested I get a good lawyer – because shit was going to fly and everyone would end up stinking.”

“Ah, yeah.” Now he remembered. “But everything worked out okay for you?”

She shrugged. “I lost my job when the gallery was sold. The new owners didn’t want anyone associated with the old order.”

“So you became a delivery woman?” Peter felt a little sad at that thought. He had been doing his job, and he knew that there would be fallout, but it seemed so unfair that an innocent would be caught out in the cold for more than a dozen years.

“Oh, no!” There was real humor in her laughter this time. “I own Desserts After Dark. Moz – our regular driver – is out sick and I’m just filling in for him tonight.”

“That’s quite a leap, though. Art gallery manager to purveyor of gourmet baked goods.” He was impressed.

“It’s been a journey. And I do have to go. I’ve got a few more deliveries to make.”

“Oh, of course.” There was something that told Peter there was a lot more to this story. He opened the door for her. “You’re the owner – do I still tip you?” He pulled out the ten dollar bill again.

“You know what? I’ll take it and give it to Moz.”

Peter didn’t doubt that she would. “Tell him I hope he feels better.”

“I will – and he’ll be back next week.”

Peter watched as Elizabeth Mitchell skipped down the stairs, got into her truck and drove off. She was pert and pretty, probably quite delightful company and a blue-eyed brunette – which, if he had ever been attracted to women, could push his buttons.

He picked up the bag from Desserts After Dark and decided that a slice of red velvet cake was really all he needed. At nearly fifty, dating seemed like more of an exercise in futility than fun, and hooking up with random strangers had never been his thing. Once upon a time, he thought he’d found Mr. Right and it turned out that Mr. Right was Mr. Wrong in so many ways. Peter didn’t exclude the possibility that there was someone else out there for him, but he wasn’t going to waste a lot of time looking.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal pulled the last batch of cupcakes out of the oven and set them on the rack to cool.

He hated cupcakes. He hated them more than he hated aspartame and skim milk and margarine. But it didn’t matter, because Elizabeth was right. His cupcakes sold, his cupcakes made more money for Desserts After Dark than all the other offerings, combined. They paid the bills, and then some.

And if it wasn’t for his cupcakes, he’d probably be working as a line baker in some vast hotel kitchen, with no room for any creativity.

Once upon a time, in another long-ago life, Neal owned a bakery. It was a beautiful place, with a bright orange awning, big windows and gleaming cases filled with the best baked goods in Manhattan. It truly deserved the name, _The Greatest Cake_. But it didn’t last. Good things never did, it seemed. On a bright November day, under a clear blue sky, Neal lost everything.

He wondered if he’d ever get over it.

Moz, best friend, confidant, occasional Fagin to his Oliver Twist, said the solution was easy. Just open up another shop. There was nothing to stop him. It wasn’t like his reputation as a baker had been called into question, and even the Post, which breathlessly reported on the story every day for a week, kept saying that his cake was truly the best in New York. Financing wasn’t impossible, if you knew the right people.

But he’d lost his heart when he lost the bakery. It was easier working for someone else, someone else to set the menu, someone else to handle the books and the bills and the problems, than to start over.

And if he hated making cupcakes, then having to make them after all, maybe that was the price to be paid for a lack of ambition.

Neal shook his head at that last thought. No, he didn’t lack ambition – being the best at his craft was still his dream. What he lacked was money and time, and for the moment, the heart to start over. He’d have his own place again. _Someday._

It was close to three AM, and he was bleary-eyed. It had been a long while since he had to pull an all-nighter like this. Back in the day, he’d be working in the bakery by this time, because everything he served was baked fresh every morning before the doors opened. Desserts After Dark was just the opposite…everything was still fresh, but since nothing was sold until the evening, he was able to bake during banker’s hours.

There were a dozen of trays of cupcakes in the cooling racks, waiting for frosting. Neal had no intention of starting that process now. He wiped down the counter, made sure that everything was put away and ready for tomorrow, shut off the lights and locked the door behind him.

The walk to the subway wasn’t far, and he was home within an hour. His apartment, the fourth floor in a spacious private home on Riverside, was a refuge from the world, with its tiny efficiency kitchen, a closet the size of many downtown apartments, and a terrace with a near-impossible view of Manhattan.

Finding it had been a stroke of luck. Six years ago, when he lost everything, Matthew had kicked him out of their apartment in the West Village. He said he didn’t like being associated with a loser. Down to his last fifty bucks, Neal had been squatting in one of Mozzie’s storage units. It was clean, but not warm and there were a few things missing – like running water, a toilet and a kitchen. Desperate to raise some cash, he was waiting for a local thrift shop to pay him for the set of hand-forged chef’s knives his mother had given him as a graduation present from culinary school (she never understood that he really didn’t need knives like these), when a fabulous older woman walked in, followed by a man in a chauffeur’s uniform.

The chauffeur laid a garment bag across the counter, and the woman told the bored clerk that she wanted to sell the suits. The girl, who probably thought “haute couture”, had something to do with a paranormal reality show, sniffed as she flipped through the clothes. “I can give you twenty bucks for the lot.”

Which was as ridiculous an offer as Neal had ever heard. But the woman seemed to be debating with herself about accepting it.

The suits themselves hadn’t actually caught Neal’s eye – it was the scent that came off the wool. It was just a hint of something that stirred his memories. He saw his father, tall and smiling as he came home from a day on the job. He remembered the feel of his arms as his father picked him up and swung him around. He remembered the scent of perspiration and the fading notes of aftershave.

Drawn by the familiar aroma, he couldn’t help but take a closer look at the clothing laid out across the counter. The suits were much finer than anything he’d ever seen in the store.

Neal asked the woman who was selling the suits, “May I?”

She nodded and he took a jacket off a hanger – it was one of the finest he’d ever seen. Even though the cut was clearly vintage – from the late 1950s, the condition of the material was immaculate. He took off the peacoat he was wearing and slipped on the jacket. Once upon a time, he had had clothes like these – exquisitely tailored, unique. But they were long gone, along with gold cufflinks and watch and everything else of value he had once owned.

Neal had checked the label, shocked by what he saw. “This is a Devore …”

“That one was my husband’s favorite. He won it off Sy himself in a poker game.”

Neal wasn’t sure who was conning who, but the woman – June – was a force to be reckoned with. She had his whole sad story out of him in ten minutes, and in exchange, Neal found himself with a dead man’s wardrobe, an apartment on the Upper West Side for a rent well below the market, and a job as a private chef.

“I’m not a charity case, you know.” His pride insisted that he put up something of a protest.

“And I’m not some batty old woman who invites strangers into her home. I’ll have a background check run on you, and you’ll give me a few references. But I like you. I like a man who’s known adversity and hasn’t let it beat him down.”

Meeting June was the start of a new phase of his life. Cooking for her was almost too easy, considering how little time June spent in her own home. And about a year after he moved in, Elizabeth swept back into his life.

_“I need a baker.”_

_“I’m not just a baker, I’m a pastry chef.”_

_“Don’t split hairs, Neal. You need a full time job. Cooking for your landlady isn’t going to keep your skills fresh or put you back into those designer suits you love.”_

_“I’m doing just fine.”_

_“Now, maybe. You were a few days from having to peddle your ass to keep a roof over your head. And what happens when Mrs. Ellington decides she no longer wants or needs a private chef? Or she sells this place?” Elizabeth was slowly jacking his dick and he really couldn’t think coherently when she was doing that to him._

_“El…” Neal had whined, his hips rising to meet her hand. She was so good._

_“Come on, Neal. Come work for me.” Her hand stroked him faster and faster. “Come on…”_

He did, and somewhere along the line he ended up agreeing to work for Elizabeth, too. Truth be told, he didn’t regret it. He might have considered cupcakes beneath him, but his cupcakes were the best in Manhattan. And that was really saying something these days.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was close to two AM by time she finished and Elizabeth decided she never wanted to do the delivery run again.

Ever.

It wasn’t that there were problems at any of the stops. The days when making late night food deliveries in Brooklyn were for adrenaline junkies and daredevils and those who were suicidal were long over. Delivering cake and cookies and other assorted goodies to hipsters needing a late night fat and sugar fix was about as dangerous as sunbathing on the Coney Island boardwalk. It was just that she was exhausted – half the customers wanted her to stay and chat, they were worried about Mozzie, and the other half all but grabbed their deliveries out of her hands, throwing tip money at her. You’d think that she was delivering heroin the way some people reacted.

And she had to admit that meeting Peter Burke again was interesting. He had intrigued her when they first met, fifteen years ago, when she had been a newly minted New Yorker, thrilled to be working at a top flight art gallery in the greatest city in the world. One of her colleagues, seeing her interest, had been quick to enlighten her – he was gay.

_“But …” There was a wealth of disappointment in that single word._

_“But what, sweetheart?” That was from Sebastian, the gallery’s resident decorator._

_“He doesn’t **look** gay.” _

_“And how are gay people **supposed** to look?” Sebastian asked, this time not so gently._

_El had bitten her lip, realizing how stupid that statement was. “Just – well, he looks so …” Fuck, she had been about to say **normal**. “Sly, I’m from small-town Illinois. What the hell do you want from me? Walking home every night is an education in human sexual relations, okay?”_

_He had taken pity on her. “Yeah, I know what you mean. He looks like everyone’s All-American, as straight as a ruler. But he’s got a boyfriend. We don’t really know each other, but I’ve seen him quite a few times in some of the local nightclubs.”_

_“Is it serious?” El didn’t know what she asked that. It wasn’t like Peter Burke would be interested in her if he wasn’t seeing someone._

_Sylvester had shrugged. “Yeah – they’ve been together for years, but Burke might be in for a nasty surprise. His guy, Daniel, has ‘other’ interests, if you know what I mean.”_

_She didn’t, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Her ignorance, however, must have shown on her face, because her co-worker explained, “Dan plays like he thinks it’s 1975.” When El shook her head in confusion, Sebastian explained that the man was extremely promiscuous, despite a years-long relationship with an FBI agent. “He likes pussy, too. He gets it whenever and wherever he can. I’m figuring that Burke doesn’t know, because he’s not the type to put up with anyone catting around on him.”_

El had felt a little sorry for Peter, it was bad enough that his boyfriend was cheating on him but it was worse that everyone seemed to know about it. But three weeks later when everything in her life came crashing down and whenever she thought about Peter Burke, it wasn’t with pity.

Leaving New York was never an option for Elizabeth Mitchell. She was young and bright and resourceful. She tried, but couldn’t get a job in another art gallery. Not only were they rare as hen’s teeth, her association with the taint from the Diarmitt made her a less than desirable candidate. That wasn’t going to stop her; she had a brain and hands and a willingness to work hard. Spending even a month unemployed drove her nuts and she figured that she needed to change direction. El got a job as a model at trade shows and learned that she had a natural talent for putting the right product into the hands of the right people, which lead to a job offer as a representative for a fancy food purveyor. A few years later, she decided to go out on her own, offering her services as an event planner.

Mitchell Premier  
Events wasn’t an immediate success, but she was in the black by the end of the first year and doing well enough that she could move out of her three-girl share in Hell’s Kitchen and into a decent-sized duplex apartment in the up-and-coming Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. It was also how she met Neal, about seven years after she started her business.

“Do you use butter or oil in your frosting?” She had been eyeing the young man’s beautiful display of miniature cakes. It didn’t hurt that the bakery representative was just as exquisite as the pastries on the table.

“Oil? You insult me.” He smiled and offered her a small slice of what looked like devil’s food cake.

She took a bite and realized that she was in the presence of true genius. She asked, “How do you feel about wedding cakes?”

“Well, I am at the biggest wedding expo on Long Island. If I didn’t like baking wedding cakes, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hmmm, good answer. But that’s not really what I’m asking. Do you believe that it’s more important that a wedding cake look like an untouchable work of art or that it’s delicious?”

The man actually smirked at her. “You’ve just tasted my cake – what do _you_ think?”

She took another mouthful, just because. “I think we can do business.” El put down the plate and took one of his business cards. “Neal Caffrey, huh? I think I’d like to introduce you to a few of my clients. Do you have a portfolio?”

“Why don’t you bring them to the bakery, and let me put on a tasting event for them.”

“Hmmm, tell you what. Why don’t I come down first and let me see how you get on. I should really try your full range of offerings.”

The smirk became something else and El had felt the magic spark. She had gotten the feeling that Neal Caffrey had a range of talents, and not all of them involved whisks and beaters.

Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea and flopped onto her couch. She probably should get into bed. While tomorrow was Saturday – no, it already _was_ Saturday – she still had to be up early and organize the next week’s catering orders. Mitchell Premier Events was still a big part of her business, even though the bakery was catching up. She had a steady corporate cliental, which gave her the latitude and cash flow to turn away any potential bridezillas. She just didn’t have the patience for spoiled brats and their histrionic mothers anymore.

She finished her tea and got up, then remembering that her bedroom was already occupied. Neal had texted her that Moz had finally agreed to take something for his cold and had fallen into a deep sleep. He had even sent her a photo of him, tucked into her bed, snuggling with a pillow, an angelic smile on his face.

Sighing, she went into her bedroom. It looked like Moz hadn’t moved in hours. She stripped and got under the covers. Gently pulling the pillow out from Mozzie’s arms, she managed to shift him so that he was resting against her torso. His beard was a little scratchy against the tender skin, but she didn’t mind. He was her wooly bear and she wouldn’t have him any other way.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz woke, and if he didn’t feel like a new man, he certainly felt a hell of a lot better. Of course, resting one’s face between Elizabeth’s magnificent breasts could make a dead man feel better. He had spent most of the weekend curled up next to Elizabeth in something of a daze, listening to her talk with customers and suppliers and making arrangements for the coming week’s events. It was a nice backdrop to his physical malaise.

He thought he remembered Neal coming over on Saturday evening with dinner – homemade chicken soup and biscuits with spicy honey butter. He may have spent the latter part of the evening passed out in a fever dream, or he actually could have been in the bed watching Elizabeth and Neal making out. He wasn’t sure.

Moz contemplated getting up, but he didn’t want to disturb El. She had her arms wrapped around him, her lips just above his head and he could feel her warm breath against his bald head.

He didn’t love Elizabeth, but he liked her a lot more than most people he had encountered in his life. She didn’t judge him, she didn’t condemn him for his quirks and his foibles and his strange behaviors. She was also stupendous in bed, a perfect partner in kink when he needed it, and as vanilla as a container of Breyer’s when his mood required.

“Mmmmm.” She extricated her arms and rolled over, spooning her bottom against his belly and points south.

Moz smiled – he clearly wasn’t as sick as he had been.

“Let me sleep, ‘kay?” She complained a little.

“Okay.” Moz pressed a kiss against the small butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and climbed out of bed. He found his clothes – they’d been neatly folded and left them on the chair. He also had a drawer in the wardrobe, with extra underwear and socks. By the time he finished his shower, he was exhausted, but refreshed, too. El had fallen into a deep sleep. He left her snoring gently and went into the kitchen for breakfast.

He found his phone, keys and wallet there. Checking for messages, there were two from Neal, but neither required a response. Moz made himself a cup of tea and thought about eggs and toast, deciding that he wasn’t really up to anything quite so nutritious. He pulled out the box of Sugar-O’s that El kept hidden in the back of the cupboard, took a container of Almond Dream from the fridge, and helped himself.

Moz had vague memories of sort of collapsing in Elizabeth’s office and being more than a little distressed about missing the Friday night delivery schedule. About not being able to deliver Peter Burke’s order.

Did he really tell El and Neal that he thought the man _liked_ him? Yeah – probably. Moz knew that under the influence of germs and Robitussin-D, he had no discretion. So what if he had a boy-crush on one of the company’s best clients? It wasn’t as if he’d ever do anything improper, or anything to jeopardize the business. It was just that Peter Burke was so _nice_ and funny and smart, and even if he liked the Yankees and the Giants and the Knicks and preferred the Journal of Accounting Professionals (which Moz privately referred to as _Suit Quarterly_ ) to the Paris Review and The American Scholar, that didn’t take anything away from the attractiveness of the man.

Moz slurped the overly sweet milk from the bottom on the bowl and figured that he probably needed to stop fixating on random people. It wasn’t like he had any problems with the ladies, as demonstrated by the sight of a sleepy Elizabeth walking into the kitchen, wearing a shortie robe and nothing else.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Clinton, where do we stand with the client summit in October?” Reese Hughes, the senior partner, gave him a deadeye stare.

“The location is locked down. Since everyone was pleased with how The Hudson handled the event last year, I’ve contracted with them again. They’ve given us a much better rate.”

“Good work. Contracts?”

“They’re on your desk, sir.” Clinton was carefully deferential to the old man.

“What about the food? Are we going with the hotel’s menu or are we bringing in a caterer again?”

“One of the reasons why the rate was so good was because the hotel’s catering facilities will be under renovation, so I’m in the process of selecting a caterer.”

“What about the one we use for the holiday party?”

Clinton tried not to grimace at the old man’s micromanagement. “They were my first thought, but I just found out that they were closed by the Board of Health two days ago. Something about rats in the food supply. They got a C rating.”

Hughes made a face. “Lovely. I know it’s still five months away, but I had hoped we could get this put away for a while. Don’t you have a fallback caterer?”

Clinton grimaced. He knew he’d be on the hot seat for this – but he was trying to work his way into the upper management hierarchy and managing the annual client summit was a sure way to get positive attention and a fast-track to a partnership share. Provided the event went off without a hitch. “I have a few names to follow up with, and will have a final candidate by the end of the week.”

“Just make sure that whoever you select doesn’t serve penne a la vodka. I hate pink sauces,” Hughes grumbled.

Clinton knew that. It had been in the notes – in big letters, highlighted in bright neon pink – from the associate who organized last year’s event. No penne a la vodka, unless you want to get demoted. Or fired. Ridiculous, but that was one of the joys of working for a boutique accounting firm in Manhattan.

Clinton had wanted to do something different this year. Instead of having a traditional sit down dinner, or even a buffet, he thought that making it a dessert event would be a novel approach. But every associate he spoke to said that was too big of a risk. The event was supposed to promote the values of the firm – stability and honesty and integrity – and doing something different could send the wrong message.

But Clinton wasn’t sure he believed them. Hughes, Burke and Company wasn’t some ancient white shoe firm with a hundred year-old reputation to uphold. Reese Hughes had done his twenty-five at the FBI’s Financial Crimes division, and had mentored Peter Burke when he’d been with the Bureau, but eventually made a name for himself as the auditor to the art world. The firm was about twelve years old, a quiet force amongst the wealthy elite in New York.

“Does anyone have anything else to add?” Hughes’ question broke into Clinton’s reverie. There were no takers, and the morning meeting came to an end.

Diana Berrigan was, as usual, joined at Peter Burke’s hip, intently discussing some recent IRS circular. Clinton figured that she read the regs the way most people read the funny pages. Once again, it looked to be impossible to get even a minute of Peter’s time. But maybe the gods were smiling on him. One of the other partners, Garrett Fowler, called Diana over to him and he found himself waiting at the elevator with Peter.

Clinton took a deep breath. He’d never really talked with the firm’s other senior partner in the six months he’d been at H-B. But he really wanted to get his opinion – and maybe get into his good graces.

“Mr. Burke – “

“Peter, please. No need to be so formal.”

Clinton nodded and then plunged in. “Can I ask you a question? About the client summit?”

Peter shrugged. “Reese is serious about the penne a la vodka. He really hates pink sauces.”

“Okay – but that really wasn’t my question.”

Peter chuckled. “Ah. Sorry.”

The elevator arrived, and Clinton knew he had a very limited window of opportunity here. The trip up to the 21st floor didn’t last long.. “About the client summit – how bad would it be to do something a little different?”

Peter, at least, seemed intrigued. “Different, how?”

“Instead of doing a full dinner – how about making it a dessert event? There would be all sorts of desserts and sweets and fruit – for the diet conscious. We’d also offer a selection of dessert wines and champagnes, maybe an espresso bar.” Clinton was breathless when he finished.

The door opened onto the 21st floor and Peter gave him an odd look. “Are you serious or is did someone put you up to this?”

“Huh? Sorry?”

Burke stopped, and Clinton all but walked into him. “No one’s told you about my Friday night habit?”

Clinton’s back went stiff. He had no idea what Peter was talking about. “Your Friday night habit?”

“Yeah – no one’s spilled about my cupcake obsession?”

Clinton shook his head and tried to hide a smile. “I know nothing about that, Peter.”

“Huh. I thought it was common knowledge that I have two cupcakes delivered to my home every Friday night.”

“No, no. Honestly, no one’s shared that with me.” Clinton knew three things about the man – he was a force to be reckoned with in the art accounting world, he was something of a genius, and he was gay. The last bit of information came to him by way of every associate on the 23rd floor. He personally didn’t think he had any reason to know about the man’s sexual preferences, but others seemed to.

Knowing his preference for pastries would have been far more useful.

“Hmmm. Okay. Anyway – you want to do a dessert buffet instead of the traditional dinner thing?”

“Yeah – I mean, it would be something for people to talk about. Besides, dessert makes people happy. And happy clients are always good for business, right?”

“You bet your ass they are. Go for it, and I’ll back you with Reese if he gives you any flack.” Peter clapped him on the arm, before heading towards his office.

He had one more question. “Um, Peter – “

“Yeah?”

“The bakery that delivers your cupcakes – do you recommend them?”

“They make the best damn cake and cupcakes I’ve ever had. But I don’t know if they do corporate events. It’s worth giving them a call, though.”

Clinton followed Peter into his office. He scribbled a URL on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Here – and ask for the owner, Elizabeth Mitchell. Tell her that Peter Burke recommended Desserts After Dark to you.”

“Elizabeth Mitchell, is she a friend?” Clinton hoped he wasn’t sounding inappropriate.

Burke just smiled. “No – not really a friend. More of an old acquaintance.”

“Okay – I won’t be shy about using your name.” He gave Peter a sort of salute – it was a habit he probably would never be able to break.

Peter recognized the gesture for what it was and tipped two fingers against his own forehead. “Dismissed.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Desserts After Dark, how can we sweeten up your life today?” Neal was answering the office phones this afternoon since El was home, in bed, curled up with tea and last week’s invoices. She thought she might have picked up Mozzie’s cold, which didn’t surprise Neal, since the two of them had spent the weekend as closely packed as canned herring.

_“Um, hi… Can I speak with Elizabeth Mitchell, please?”_

Neal smiled. Whoever was on the other end of the phone sounded like he wasn’t really sure why he was calling.

“Ms. Mitchell isn’t in the office, but maybe I can help you.”

_“I, um, was wondering if you did any catering or corporate events.”_

“Sure – of course we do. What are you looking for?” Neal reached for a pencil and a pad, and had a hard time keeping up with the man as he described a corporate sugar rush.

_“So – what I’m looking for is a selection of unique and traditional desserts for about a hundred-fifty, two hundred people. You don’t just do cupcakes, right?”_

“You sound like a man after my own heart – I’m the baker for Desserts After Dark and always appreciate the chance to provide a full palette.”

_“Hmm – would it be possible to provide a tasting for five? Maybe the full range of what you would offer?”_

“A sort of mini-Viennese table?”

_“That would be perfect. Do you do coffee, too?”_

“Espresso, cappuccino, fine brew.”

_“Yeah – and wine?”_

“That we can’t supply directly, but we have connections to licensed vendors.”

_“Thanks – this all sounds terrific. Hmm, when can you come and do your thing – the tasting?”_

Neal looked around for El’s calendar, and not finding one, entered her computer’s password. “It looks like the soonest we’re available for is Friday afternoon, around three. Will that work?”

It sounded like the guy was flipping pages back and forth – probably a desk calendar. _“Yeah, Friday at three will be perfect.”_

“Um, what’s your name? I’ll need all of the particulars – and Ms. Mitchell will probably call you back before Friday to confirm.”

Neal took down the information, filling out one of the Mitchell Premier Events’ detailed order forms. It seemed that Mr. Clinton Jones was organizing his company’s annual bash and wanted to do something different. “A few more questions – do you know if anyone who will be at the tasting has any nut allergies?”

_“I can check and get back to you.”_

“Great.” Neal went through the rest of the checklist. “Just one last question – how did you hear about Desserts After Dark? Have you ever tried our pastries?”

_“No – actually one of the senior partners here recommended you. He says that he gets some stuff delivered every Friday – cupcakes, I think. He was the one who told me to ask for Elizabeth Mitchell. Said she was an old acquaintance.”_

Neal wondered if this was Mozzie’s Mr. Tall and Nice Smile. He rarely took care of the order fulfillment end of the business. He baked, that’s it. Someone else – usually Elizabeth or her assistant, Yvonne – packed up the stuff for delivery. El had once told him that they had a very steady customer for his cupcakes. But it probably wasn’t this guy – El never mentioned anything about knowing him.

He hung up and started planning the menu for the tasting, thinking about which pastries would best show off his talent while remaining accessible to the widest range of guests. He’d open with some traditional light custard based tortes – miniature ones. Then a selection of petit fours, but nothing too sweet. There should also be a selection of dessert cheeses and fresh fruit. El had a contact that did exquisite fruit carvings and maybe she’d do a small melon for the tasting. They could also bring some good dessert wines and talk about quality and range of what they wanted. Then he’d do some traditional cakes and a big finish with handmade chocolates and champagne.

Neal got so lost in the planning that he didn’t hear Moz come in. It wasn’t until the sound of slightly wheezy breathing interrupted his concentration that Neal looked up.

“Hey – how are you?”

Moz gave him a little shrug. “Alive, despite the best efforts of the pharmaceutical industry. Do you know what’s in that stuff you fed me?”

Yes, Moz was definitely feeling better.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Honestly, Peter was a little embarrassed at how much he was looking forward to the tasting and presentation by Desserts After Dark. It was actually the third such event that Clinton Jones had organized this week. The other two were, well, okay. Both companies had established reputations as dessert caterers and their presentations were highly polished and extremely professional. If the sweets lacked soul, they were at least consistent and designed to please a broad and shallow spectrum of tastes.

Jones, so patently ambitious, had done a good job with both preliminary selections and the old man was impressed enough that even if the presentation by Desserts After Dark fell flat, he’d give Clinton the go-ahead for this style event.

But Peter was hoping for something more – something with a bit less polish and a lot more pizazz. Which probably wasn’t too smart. This was for the clients – and while the firm’s customers were amongst the high and mighty of New York’s bohemian art world – they expected a certain staidness from their accountants.

He met up with Reese and they made their way to the conference room.

“That Jones may have a good head on his shoulders or he may be on the unemployment line if this goes wrong.” Hughes was sounding particularly bad tempered this morning.

“I don’t think he’ll end up on the unemployment line, Reese. Even if the summit’s not the shining event you dream about. He’s already brought in three new clients and I’m going to recommend him for a partnership in the fall.” Peter replied. He liked the younger man and he was going to bring him onto his team, regardless.

“Hmmm, we’ll see.”

Peter sighed. Sometimes Reese seemed to forget that they were equal partners in this venture. “Yes, we will.” That came out sharper than intended and the old man gave him a look.

But that look turned to something else when they got to the conference room, where Elizabeth Mitchell was setting up. She smiled as she walked towards him.

“Thank you for the recommendation, Peter.”

“Well, I do know the quality of your baked goods, but whether you can provide the type of event we want is yet to be seen.” He didn’t want to make it seem like she was a shoe-in, or their prior acquaintance would weigh heavily in her favor. After all, he only knew her as a very junior staff member at an art gallery he was investigating for tax fraud, not as a business owner.

“I’m sure you’ll find that my company will be able to meet your needs.”

“I’m sure it will.” Unbelievably, Reese cut between them and held out his hand, introducing himself as “the Hughes in Hughes, Burke.”

Elizabeth Mitchell gave him a dazzling smile and Peter was astonished to see his often cold-hearted, bottom-line focused, penne a la vodka-hating partner give the woman his own version of a besotted smile.

The conference room door opened. It was Clinton, who was followed by a small cart covered in a series of silver domes and trays, pushed by a young, dark-haired man. When he looked up, Peter felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

He’d been working in Manhattan for the entirety of his adult life. He routinely met with the famous and the beautiful and knew too much about the dark side of human nature to be star-struck. But he’d never had such a visceral reaction to another human being. It wasn’t just that this man was his type – and yes, he knew that it was ridiculous to prefer blue-eyed brunets – but that …

He couldn’t even find the words to describe his feelings, other than the obvious, and he was very grateful for the long cut of his jacket and the loose fit to his pants, because saying hello with both a handshake and an erection was something less that professional.

Elizabeth broke away from charming Reese to introduce him to this god on earth. “Peter – this is Neal Caffrey, the man who bakes your cupcakes.”

 _He most certainly does._ Peter stifled that double entendre before it escaped his mouth. “And they are delicious.”

“El’s told me that you are our number one customer.” Neal held out a hand and Peter took it, it was warm and dry, the skin smooth but very much the hand of a man who worked.

Peter hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I don’t know if I’m your best customer, but I do enjoy your cupcakes.”

Neal’s eyes were sparkling, and his lips curved with laughter. “Well, I hope you like my other offerings just as much.”

Peter felt thick and foolish, he hadn’t been this this tongue-tied since the first time he went into a gay bar. At nearly fifty, he was being ridiculous, lusting after some delicious piece of undoubtedly heterosexual man-candy.

Neal pulled free – Peter hadn’t realized that he was still holding his hand. The fingers that slid slowing across his palm sent tendrils of fire through him. As if he needed anything else to arouse him. And then he realized something – this guy was flirting with him. As impossible as it seemed, he was giving him signals. He was interested in him.

_Damn._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal listened as Elizabeth went through her presentation. It was polished, yet personal, tailored to meet the expectations of this particular prospective client. Of course, she was wowing them. It was clear that the old man, Hughes, was smitten, so much so that it was likely that even if they didn’t win the business, El just might find herself with a new admirer.

The surprise in the room, however, was Peter Burke.

Of course he remembered Mozzie’s fevered raptures about the man, but Moz had a way of seeing things that weren’t quite there. So Neal had been expecting some middle-aged guy with a middle-aged spread, nice eyes and receding hairline. Sort of a taller version of Moz, himself.

What he found was the equivalent of a Ken Shun knife in a drawer full of Ginsus. A bar of Valhrona tucked into a box of fundraiser candy. A perfectly made genoise in a package of Twinkies.

Peter Burke was everything he ever dreamed of, when he dreamed of men (which he had to admit, was far more often these days than not). It wasn’t his height or the breadth of muscles hidden under that horrible suit, or the perfectly shaped lips, which were a special attraction that could send him deep into the Catholic schoolboy’s version of Hell. No, Neal found himself reacting to the spark of intelligence in his eyes, the self-deprecating smile, the hand that lingered in his.

This was a man he wanted to get to know better, a lot better. Neal just hoped that Moz wasn’t wrong, because lusting after a straight man was something he never wanted to go through again.

El’s presentation was coming to a close. “I can give you facts and figures, we can talk budgets and menus, but to be honest, I know that right now, you’re really only interested in the cake.

That was Neal’s cue. He began removing the covers from the platters on the cart as Elizabeth turned the lights up. There were five people from Hughes, Burke in the conference room. In addition to the two senior partners and Clinton Jones, who had organized the tasting, there were two women. One was a tall redhead who looked like she could have modeled for the Pre-Raphaelites and the other, a middle-aged blonde with a no-nonsense haircut and the hardest eyes Neal had ever seen. Peter brought them over to Neal and introduced them.

“These are the people you’ll really need to impress – Kathleen Rice and Helen Anderson.” Peter said nothing more as he retreated to the other side of the room.

“What can I sweeten your day with, ladies?”

The redhead – Kathleen Rice – gave him a bit of a twisted smile. “I have a peanut allergy.”

“And I’m diabetic.” Helen stated.

 _Ah, a test_. But he was prepared and looked at the redhead. “The baking facilities at Desserts After Dark are peanut-free and we procure all of our supplies from certified vendors, but we do utilize tree nuts in many of the recipes. You aren’t allergic to almonds, hazelnuts and walnuts, are you?”

Rice shook her head. “No – I’m fine with those.”

“Then you are fine with anything on the table.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “My hips won’t be, but that chocolate cake looks too good to pass up.”

“It’s a flourless torte, with raspberry and bittersweet chocolate ganache filling.” As Neal plated the small cake, he continued to describe the items on the table.

“Stop, please – you’re killing me.” Kathleen laughed and took the plate. “I’m sure I’ll be back for seconds.”

As she wandered off, Neal turned to the older woman, Helen. “I’ll bet you’re sick and tired of being offered a fruit and cheese plate.”

She nodded. “Do you have any idea how much I despise Granny Smith apples and fat-free cheese?”

“Since I think fat-free cheese is an abomination, yes, I do.”

Helen didn’t precisely thaw, but she seemed a touch less hostile. “I can’t eat anything you’ve baked.”

Neal was conscious that everyone was watching them. “That’s not quite true.”

“Oh?” That single syllable conveyed a wealth of skepticism.

He lifted a silver dome from the last covered tray. “Almond flour chocolate cake sweetened with brown rice syrup. Thirty carbs per serving. I also have a fruit tart with an almond and hazelnut flour crust and lemon bars as well.”

Helen actually licked her lips. “I’d like to have one of each …”

That surprised Neal, but he started to plate as she requested.

“Which would be foolish. Please, just the chocolate cake.”

He handed her the plate with a bow and a flourish. “Enjoy.”

Everyone in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as she took the offering with a nod and a tight smile. “I’ll let you know.” She left the conference room, as full of dignity as the Queen Mary under sail.

Hughes and Clinton Jones were first in line, and the young man had the sense to step aside for his firm’s senior partner. Although there were only four people to feed, Neal had to struggle a bit to keep up with their demands. Elizabeth was acting as the barista, working the small machine like a professional.

Finally, everyone settled down to eat and Neal looked over to his boss. She discreetly wiped the perspiration off her face. “Seems like they’re enjoying themselves. Give them a few minutes and then we’ll bring out the grand finale.”

El was right, and it warmed Neal’s heart to see his creations consumed with such delight. Clinton was scraping the edge of his fork along the plate to gather up the stray frosting, and Kathleen was gazing fondly at the tray of petit fours. Neal saw no reason to deprive her. He put two on a plate with a strawberry garnish and delivered it to her.

“You are an enabler.” She complained, but there was no sting in her words.

“I am a pastry chef. I think that’s a higher calling.”

Peter Burke had remained silent through most of the tasting, but Neal felt his eyes on him. The man’s focus was electric and Neal had the strongest desire to serve him on bended knee.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“That went well, I think,” Elizabeth said as she handed the last box of dishware to Neal, who stowed it in the back of the van. She stepped back on the curb as Neal jumped out and closed the doors.

“I think it went splendidly. One of your best presentations, ever.” His grin was a touch weary. As hard as she had worked preparing for this, Neal worked just twice as hard. When the order came in, they both had the sense of something momentous – that this was an opportunity that could change the rest of their lives. Which was silly, since Hughes, Burke was a boutique accounting firm, not a major player in the field. But she wasn’t one to ignore gut feelings.

“Let me drive.” Neal knew her too well – she hated driving in the city, especially in lower Manhattan. She handed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Shouldn’t take too long, a quick trip across the bridge and we’ll be home.”

“Don’t know why I’m so wiped out. It’s not like I haven’t done presentations like this before.”

“I know, but we pulled out all of the stops for Hughes, Burkes. Which is ridiculous – they’re just accountants.”

“But accountants who have clients that are boldface names, clients who get featured in the Sunday Times Style section and New York Magazine. Clients who have influence.”

“Clients who could be future clients of Mitchell Premier Events, right?”

“Got it in one, ace.” She turned her head and watched Neal as he concentrated on driving through the late afternoon traffic. His profile was just as pure, just as perfect as it was when she first met him, nine years ago. Of course, there was also the rich ping of sexual attraction – he could push her buttons so easily. But then, so did Mozzie, and so did – of all people – Reese Hughes.

No, she shouldn’t put it like that. Not _of all people._ Reese Hughes was a man, and she liked men – all kinds. Some judgmental people might even call her a slut, but she liked to think of herself as a woman who understood her appetites. It wasn’t as if she screwed random strangers in anonymous hotel rooms – she liked sex and she liked variety and she made sure her partners understood that. Yet, she had a feeling that Reese was going to upend her comfortable, carefree life.

Neal took note of her abstraction. “What’s with the sigh?”

“Just thinking.”

“We’ve got this one in the bag. The old man …”

“He’s not that old. Sixty-two, tops.”

“Huh?”

“Reese – you called him an old man, like he’s decrepit or something.”

“El?”

“Well, he’s not. And he’s nice.”

Neal grinned and looked at her while they were stopped at a light. “I do have to say that _Reese_ seemed quite smitten, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Am I getting the feeling that it’s mutual? There were times it seemed like you were talking to him like he was the only other person in the room.”

She deflected, without success. “He’s a prospective client.”

“It’s not like that’s stopped you before.”

“You shouldn’t cast stones, Neal George Caffrey. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of Peter Burke. Who, is, by the way, most definitely gay, if you were wondering.”

“I was, and thank you for that, but stop trying to change the conversation. I’m not judging you, El. Far from it. Reese Hughes is just a bit different from your usual type.”

“Because he’s older?”

“Yeah. And because he’s a little grim and conservative”

Neal was right. “Who’s to say anything will happen. And I’d rather win this opportunity.”

“So – keep my mitts off Peter Burke until we hear from them?”

“That would probably be a good idea.”

“Probably? That’s a huge loophole, El. You know how much I love to exploit loopholes.”

“You’re an adult, Neal. I’m not your mother or your priest.”

“No, thank goodness, because that would be kinky, even for you.”

El laughed and slapped at Neal’s arm. The traffic was typical for a Friday evening, and it took the better part of forty minutes before they pulled into the parking lot for building that housed the bakery. This part of East Williamsburg was still industrial and the real estate was affordable, relatively speaking. She figured that in another eight years, the land prices would catch up with the rest of the borough and she’d either have to close shop or relocate. She wouldn’t worry about that now – no point in borrowing trouble?

The automatic gate closed behind the van, and Neal got out and started unloading. Moz, who had recovered from his cold, had a full schedule for delivery tonight.

“Are you going to help, or just sit there like the Queen of Sheba?” Neal called out to her.

El retorted, “Nice way to talk to the woman who signs your paycheck.”

“Fine, be like that, Lazybones.”

Neal’s goading had nothing to do with her getting out of the van. She ignored his smirk and took the box of dirty dishes from him. Not that she was planning on washing them, or anything like that.

Moz was waiting at the door and she unceremoniously handed the carton to him. He grumbled, “I’m a driver, not your slave.”

A double entendre was on her lips, but the memory of Reese Hughes, tall and proud, trying to look stern but failing as he smiled at her, stilled the words. _Damn – this was going to be a problem_.

Moz looked surprised at her lack of a witty comeback, and he disappeared into the building.

El went back to the van to finish helping Neal unload. They had just gotten the last box of equipment out when her phone started to ring. She looked at the screen, recognizing the number and smiled. This just had to be good news.

“Hello, Clinton.”

_“Ms. Mitchell, I want to thank you for the excellent presentation you gave.”_

Her heart sank a little. Clinton Jones had struck her as a bit old-fashioned, and this was probably a simple follow up call. “It was our pleasure. I hope your bosses enjoyed everything.”

_“Oh, they more than enjoyed everything. They can’t stop talking about you, about the food, about Neal.”_

“I hope they were saying only good things.”

_“Let’s just say, they couldn’t stop raving. Helen also – and if you had any idea how hard it is to win **her** over…”_

Helen Anderson had returned to the conference room just as Neal had finished serving the chocolate and sparkling wine pairings. She didn’t knock, marching right up to him with a small black device in her hand. El couldn’t see what it said, but she figured it was her blood sugar monitor. She watched as Helen showed it to Neal and kissed him on the cheek.

_“Anyway – I’m just calling to let you know that we’ve picked Desserts After Dark for the event. Reese and Peter have signed the contracts and they should already be in your email.”_

El’s head was buzzing. “Clinton – thank you.”

_“No, thank you. You made me look good today.”_

“And we’ll make your firm look even better come October.” They talked for a few more minutes, setting up a tentative schedule. She thanked him again and disconnected.

“El?” Neal had followed her into the building and into her office. “Good news?”

She wrapped her arms around him, grinning like a fool. “We got it, babe. We got it!”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was glad it was Friday, for so many reasons. Normally, he’d be playing poker tonight, but the game was cancelled – two of the guys were on vacation, a third had dental problems and two-handed poker wasn’t much fun when you were playing for just a few bucks.

Truthfully, he was happy to be home and by himself. He wanted to think about today. No – he wanted to think about Neal. _Neal Caffrey_. He rolled the name around in his head, liking the rhythm of it. It was as attractive as its owner.

Bakers shouldn’t be so beautiful – they should be a little roly-poly from sampling their own wares. Neal looked like he never ate anything except tofu and wheat grass smoothies. Peter knew the type, men who lived for the gym, who spent every free moment working to perfect perfection. But Neal was the antithesis of that. He had embraced a career that tempted the senses, that would destroy such physical perfection.

Peter knew he was being shallow and probably just a little ridiculous. A man like Caffrey – a _young_ man like Caffrey probably wouldn’t look twice at him. Yeah, he knew he had a decent physique, he kept himself in shape, but he was on the downward slide to fifty and feeling distinctly past his prime of late. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out on a date and as for sex…well his right hand was a steady partner and he never had to worry about it cheating on him.

That didn’t stop him from fantasizing, though. He’d gotten definite vibes that Neal was gay, and that there was some interest there, but then he could be completely mistaken. He was there to sell himself and his company, after all.

But his gut told him that wasn’t the case; he gut said that this guy was attracted to him. Peter had learned a long time ago that he should listen to his gut, because when he ignored it, things tended to turn to shit damn quickly. Wasn’t that what happened with Dan? He’d ignored all the warning signs and got his heart broken and his health compromised. _No, better not think about that – it was a long time ago and you know better now._

But this time, his gut was telling him that Neal Caffrey was someone he should have in his life. He’d listen to his gut and call the bakery on Monday; maybe see if Neal would like to go to lunch one day.

Still, it was a Friday night, there was a guy out there who looked like a god and seemed to be attracted to him and he was alone. Something was wrong with this picture.

He picked up the remote and turned on the television. At least the Yankees were playing.

Which turned out to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions. They were playing the Red Sox at home and getting clobbered. It was 11 to 1 and the Yankees were down to their final out. He turned off the game in disgust.

Times like this, he wished he had a dog. They could go for a walk. Not that he needed a dog to do that, but he wasn’t the type to walk around aimlessly at night, even in the relatively crime-free precincts of Cobble Hill.

It was too early to go to bed, too late to do anything and the thought of doing work had no appeal at all. Worst of it was, he didn’t even have a cupcake order to look forward to. After all the sweets this afternoon, the last thing he needed to eat was a red velvet cupcake. But he liked the delivery guy, Moz, who was always up for conversation. He had some weird ideas and believed in a few pretty out-there conspiracies, but he was smart and funny and Peter enjoyed spending a few minutes with the guy.

It didn’t escape him that he could also milk Moz for information about Neal, what he liked to do when he wasn’t baking, and more importantly, whether he was seeing anyone. Peter briefly entertained the thought of using his old law enforcement contacts to have a background check run on him, but that seemed a little sleazy.

Peter pulled out the latest edition of _Granta_ from the pile of magazines next to the couch and was about to start reading a piece of new Caribbean fiction when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was a few minutes after ten, right about the time that his cupcakes would be delivered, if he had actually ordered them.

Maybe he did and just forgot.

He opened the curtains and looked down onto the street. Nope, the distinctive Desserts After Dark van wasn’t double parked in front of the house. Just a few pedestrians going by. The doorbell rang again and Peter went to answer it.

And got the shock of his life. It was Neal Caffrey, and he was holding one of his company’s pastry boxes. Even through the old glass on the front door, he could see the man’s uncertain smile.

Peter was completely at a loss for words as he opened the door.

“I figured I’d make your delivery tonight.” Neal held out the box.

“I didn’t order anything.” Peter replied, and immediately felt like an idiot. Neal Caffrey was _here_.

The smile wavered and then disappeared altogether. “Ah, sorry. I thought…” His voice trailed off and Peter could read his embarrassment. Neal turned to leave.

“No, don’t – don’t go.” He grabbed Neal’s arm, tugging him back. “I didn’t mean to be so rude.” Peter smiled, hoping that he didn’t look like some sick freak.

Apparently not, because Neal smiled back. “So, you don’t want this?”

“You brought me cupcakes?” Peter couldn’t help himself and reached for the box.

“Actually, no.”

“No?” Peter was disappointed

“Something a whole lot better than cupcakes.”

“Not possible.” Peter ushered Neal into the living room. “I do have to tell you that it’s going to take a lot to top your cupcakes.”

“Really? After what I served you this afternoon, you can say that?”

“Everything was delicious – perfect – but your cupcakes…” Peter thought he saw Neal wince. “What’s the matter?”

“No, nothing.”

It felt like he had pressed at a sore spot. “I’m a man of simple tastes, sorry to say.”

“It’s not you – I just have a thing about cupcakes.” Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and looked like he was about to run.

“A baker who hates his own creations? Will you tell me why?” He went over to his wine rack – he did have a few good bottles. “This sound like a tale worthy of an ‘82 Bordeaux.”

Neal looked impressed. “It’s not that interesting a story – certainly not worthy of such a storied vintage.”

“I have a feeling it is.” He opened the wine and brought the bottle and two glasses over. “Should let it breathe for a few minutes.”

“How did you get your hands on a bottle of ‘82 Bordeaux?”

“I have good friends who know what I like.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a few of those friends.” Neal leaned back, but was clearly taking in the room.

Peter wondered what it said about him. Probably nothing particularly complimentary.

“Have you lived here long?”

“About a decade. I bought the place just before the market took off. Could sell it and retire on the proceeds. Buy a boat and sail around the world, probably.”

They chatted about the ludicrous nature of the Brooklyn real estate market. “El’s biggest fear is that our landlord’s going to jack up the rent. She’d like to buy the building, but that takes capital she doesn’t have.”

“El?” Peter couldn’t help but wonder at Neal’s obviously affectionate tone.

“Elizabeth – she’s not a Beth or an Ellie, you know.”

Peter wasn’t sure he could, but that didn’t really matter. “How did you come to work for her?”

“We found each other at a wedding expo out on Long Island. Must be at least eight years now. Once upon a time, I had a bakery …” Neal drifted off, his tone wistful.

“You have your own shop, too?”

“Not anymore.” Neal had a sad, faraway look in his eyes. “I had a small legacy from my dad. It paid for my education and I took what was left and opened a shop in lower Manhattan.”

Peter poured them each a glass of wine, and handed one to Neal. He watched as Neal took a sip, eyes closed in rapture. Peter waited patiently for him to go on, intrigued by the contradiction of this man. “What happened?”

“Life. Idiots. Insurance companies. Morons. Attorneys.”

“That’s quite a litany of bad guys. And I’d say you’re a little bitter.”

Neal let out a snort of laughter. “As aspirin.”

“Tell me what happened,” Peter encouraged.

“The shop was near the corner of Duane and Reade Streets.”

“I know the area – right by the Federal courthouse.”

“Yeah. And did you know that some of the judges have chambers in the office buildings nearby?”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah, I think I did.” He wondered what that possibly could have to do with a bakery?

“My bakery, The Greatest Cake…”

“You named your bakery after a Steve McQueen movie?”

“Huh?”

“You said it was called ‘The Great Escape’.”

“No – ‘The Greatest Cake’.” Neal let out a little chuckle, finally catching on to the inadvertent play on words. “How fucking appropriate…”

Peter didn’t get it, but he’d wait for Neal to make the connection.

“The _bakery_ was open for about two years and was solid. We’d gotten some great reviews and a write up in New York Magazine as one of the top indulgences in the City. And then some yahoo decided to escape from a judge’s chamber, using the awning over my bakery as a landing pad.”

“What!”

“Yeah – seems that this guy had arranged to make a closed door confession. Said he had all sorts of information about the Barelli crime family, said he would only talk to the judge and a court reporter, no witnesses, not even his own attorney. It was all a scam. He’d planned an escape, and climbed out of the judge’s fourth floor window, scooted across the ledge and jumped onto the awning over The Greatest Cake’s doorway.”

“And he missed?” Peter was fascinated and appalled.

“No, I wish he did. He landed, but the awning frame gave way. It pulled loose from the brickwork and the whole thing collapsed. There were people under the awing.” Neal buried his face in his hands, devastated by the memory of this tragedy.

“Was anyone killed?”

“No, thank goodness.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe not. They lived and sued.”

“You? Why did they sue you?”

“Because it was my awning, my bakery. Even the guy who jumped sued me for failing to maintain the building properly. I was served before I finished getting the mess on the sidewalk cleaned up.”

Peter wasn’t a lawyer, but he thought he knew enough about the law to wonder how Neal could possibly be liable. “Well, if you didn’t own the building – the landlord should have been responsible.”

“Except that my lease made me responsible for any fixtures and appurtenances.” Neal spat out the last word as if it was a curse.

Peter was afraid he knew where the story was going.

“They sued and sued and sued some more. Even people who were inside the store sued me. There were people who weren’t even there who tried to get in on the action.”

“And you didn’t have insurance?”

“I had some – not enough, though. And the lawyers wanted to be paid. I sold the bakery, filed for bankruptcy, gave the land sharks I hired to defend me my last dime. I lost _everything_.”

Peter wanted to give Neal a hug. Instead, he refilled his wineglass, and waited patiently for him to continue.

“Matthew kicked me out, too. I was a loser and he didn’t want to be associated with such a failure.”

“Matthew?”

“My boyfriend at the time. You might have heard of him, Matthew Keller, bad boy fashion designer, the prince of the runway? Designer to the rich and young and wicked?”

Peter shook his head. “Nope. Sorry, never heard of him.”

“No? Matthew would be disappointed – he so wants to be both ubiquitous and exclusive.”

“He sounds like an asshole.”

Neal chuckled, and it wasn’t a happy sound. “Yeah – he is. And a very talented one.”

The moment stretched thin, becoming uncomfortable. “You still haven’t told me why you hate cupcakes. Did someone open a cupcake shop where your bakery was?”

“Oh, that has nothing to do with the bakery. I have always despised cupcakes. There’s no artistry there – anyone can bake cupcakes. You might as well use a box mix.”

Peter disagreed, particularly when it came to Neal’s cupcakes. But there was such a wealth of contempt there that he didn’t want to argue. “But you don’t despise the people who like cupcakes?”

His question startled Neal, who all but shook himself. “No, no – you’re entitled to like what you want to like. I don’t judge anyone’s tastes. God knows, I have a few of my own I should be embarrassed about.”

That intrigued Peter to no end. He wanted to ask Neal if he was involved with anyone, but that seemed way too personal. “You like working for Elizabeth Mitchell?”

“Yeah – she’s a terrific woman.”

Peter got the oddest feeling that Neal’s admiration was more than professional, but he just told him that he had been living with another guy.

“What about Moz, the guy who does the deliveries. You know him?”

“Of course, I was the one who got him the job. I’d have to say that Moz is probably my best friend. And because I can say that, I can also say that he’s, well, unique.”

“I got a sense of that.” Peter had to smile at the moment of perfect understanding between them.

“I bet you don’t know that Moz has a PhD in astrophysics from Cornell and once had a reputation that rivaled Carl Sagan’s.”

“Really?” Peter couldn’t imagine the little guy spending his nights peering into a telescope. Or maybe he could.

“Yeah. He was at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in the mid-Eighties. Apparently, there was a huge scandal – rival models or something about planetary orbits, the Kuiper belt and the classification of Pluto. Moz’s theories were discredited and he had to leave California for good. Apparently, he can never go back.”

“Huh? That sounds bizarre, even for Moz.”

Neal shrugged. “He washed his hands of the whole field, came back to New York, and made a fortune in storage lockers. Now he keeps himself busy as the delivery driver for Desserts After Dark.”

“Storage lockers – like those reality shows? He buys old storage lockers?”

“No – he invested in a whole chain of storage locker facilities. Became a real estate mogul of sorts. He calls them cemeteries for the culture of acquisition.”

“Now, that does sound like Moz. How did you meet him?”

“I had just moved to New York, was starting culinary school, and was so naive that you could see ‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead. I nearly lost a year’s tuition money in a three-card Monte game before Moz rescued me.”

“That also sounds like something Moz would do.”

“We’ve been friends ever since. Sometimes he pretends to be lactose intolerant and gluten intolerant – just to challenge my skills. I’ll humor him and make a pretty damn fine vegan shortbread.”

The thought of that boggled Peter’s mind. “So, what did you bring me?”

Neal gave him a mischievous smile. “I thought you didn’t want anything. Didn’t you say that you were too satiated from the tasting this afternoon?”

He did, but the thought of Neal bringing him his very own pastry was too good to turn up. “It’s been a few hours, so I’m good.”

“I still don’t know…”

“Neal – stop being such a tease.”

The look the other man gave him was scorching and Peter felt his cheeks get hot. He really hadn’t intended to comment to be so overtly sexual. Neal retrieved the box and handed it to him. Peter opened it.

At first, he thought Neal had been putting one over on him. It looked like a red velvet cupcake, but at second glance, Peter realized it wasn’t. The shape wasn’t quite right. It was a little taller, a little wider and it didn’t have the distinctive pleated paper cup, but was instead wrapped in what appeared to be a lace ribbon. He carefully removed it from the box – the ribbon wasn’t lace, but chocolate and it wasn’t a cupcake but a miniature layer cake.

His mouth watered.

“Go on, eat it.”

Peter licked his lips. “This is gorgeous, Neal. I can’t just bite into it.”

“It’s just a cake.”

“It’s a work of art, meant to be savored.” Maybe the wine had gone to his head. “Let me get a plate and a fork, at least.”

“It’s just a petit gâteau, not a work of art,” Neal corrected him, but Peter thought he could hear the pleasure Neal took from his appreciation.

He put the cake back and went into the kitchen to get a plate and a pair of forks. He came back to find Neal sprawled against the back of the couch, wine glass in hand, eyes closed. He looked like he belonged nowhere else.

Neal opened his eyes and smiled. Once again, Peter was struck through the heart. Was this going to be a disaster or the best thing that had ever happened to him?

“Tell me about Peter Burke, CPA to the New York art world.”

“That isn’t a particularly interesting story.” He retrieved the cake, set it on the plate with care and handed a fork to Neal. “You’ll have some, too?” For some reason, Peter really wanted to see him eat.

Neal took the fork, and there was glint of laughter in his eyes. “Tell me about yourself. Why an accountant? You seem a lot more dynamic than your profession would suggest.”

Peter’s hand was poised above the confection. “I like math.” There was so much that Peter didn’t want to tell Neal. Not now, not ever.

“But accounting isn’t really math.”

His fork sank through the layers of cake and frosting and the sensation was actually erotic. He focused, instead, on Neal’s question. “There is math – but it’s more than just the numbers. I could have pursued an academic career, worked on a Millennium problem for the rest of my life, but I wanted to do something more than sit in the ivory tower.”

“Didn’t the guy who solved Fermat’s Last Theorem get named to People Magazine’s Sexiest?”

“Yeah – Andrew Wilkes, and his original proof was faulty. It took him another seven years to fix it. How do you know about that? You don’t strike me as the People Magazine type reader.”

“There was a thing on it on PBS a few years back. I found it interesting. And I do remember that he had to go back and redo his work.”

“Academic mathematics is unbelievably cutthroat.”

“But you could make a sexiest people list, easily.”

“I would rather not.” Peter finally took a bite of the cake. It should have been impossible, but it was better than Neal’s cupcakes. The sweetness was perfectly balanced, the cake a touch denser, richer than the cupcake or even the sliced cake he had gotten last week. He complimented Neal, who waved it off.

“So why accounting – you really like doing other people’s taxes?”

“It's more than taxes, but I didn’t start out that way. The FBI recruited me just after I finished business school. Spent a decade in the White Collar division before I resigned.”

“You quit the FBI?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t a good fit.” Peter found that even after so long, the thought of his lost career still had the power to hurt him.

“Because you’re gay?”

Peter didn’t answer, taking a bit of the cake instead. The sweetness didn’t mix too well with the sour taste of his memories.

Neal didn’t let the matter go. “I thought it was just the military that had a policy.”

He swallowed. “There was no anti-discrimination law for Federal employees. I was lucky for the first few years – had a good boss who didn’t care. But a new broom came in and decided to make my life a living hell. I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Reese Hughes – he was your boss, right?”

“Yeah – they forced him into retirement. He wasn’t ready to spend the rest of his life on a golf course and decided to open up his own firm, asked me to join him and well … you know how that worked out.”

“I’d say, pretty good. But sometimes you just can’t stop thinking about what you lost.” From what he’d just told him, Neal knew all too well what that was like.

“Yeah.” Peter looked down at the plate – there was one forkful left. “I think I have to agree, your talents are wasted on cupcakes.”

Neal smiled and it was as if the whole room lit up. “That is a compliment I can appreciate.” He pushed the plate towards Peter, urging him to finish.

“You don’t eat your own creations?”

“I taste them all day long – I have to.”

“And spend your nights at the gym?”

“Sort of. I prefer to run and swim. I like to let the repetitive motions clear my head. Can’t quite get that with the machines.”

Peter knew the feeling, and tomorrow was definitely going to be a day spent working off the calories. “I don’t want to let it go to waste, it’s so damn good.”

“Tell you what…” Neal split the piece and took half, leaving the rest for him.

That last mouthful was as perfect as the first, and he swallowed it with relish. Neal had eaten his, and there were a few crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

Peter reached out to brush them away just as Neal tried to lick at them. If the cake had been an irresistible temptation, this was an enticement beyond measure. Neal’s tongue swept against Peter’s fingers, once as an accident. And then again, deliberately.

He didn’t want to jump Neal – he was a grown man with a level of self-control, but Neal was making that so damn hard. And then he laughed at that thought.

“What’s so funny?”

“Me – you. What you’re doing to me.”

Neal looked confused, then a little hurt. “I’m sorry.”

“No – don’t be. I like it. I like it a lot.” Peter brushed his thumb against Neal’s cheek, enjoying the texture of his stubble, the contrast between that and his smooth skin. “You’re making me a little crazy, you know that.”

Neal’s pupils dilated, the blue of his eyes almost disappearing. “Good, because you’re doing the same to me.”

Peter didn’t know if he leaned in, or Neal did. All he knew was that his arms were filled with the warm, hard body of a man he wanted, his mouth was devouring, or being devoured, Neal’s hands were cupped against the base of his skull and his soul was on fire.

The plate and forks went clattering to the floor as he surged over Neal, pressing him down onto the couch. Neal’s hands left his head to pull at his tee shirt. They were like brands against his skin, burning against his flesh, but there was only pleasure from that touch.

“Mmmm, you taste too good.”

Neal’s words were another goad and Peter bit and licked and nipped at his lips before breaking away. “And you taste like heaven.”

Neal pulled him close and Peter settled himself against the cradle of Neal’s hips, their erections rubbing against each other, the pressure of zippers and well-worn denim only added to the pleasure. Peter’s hips rocked against Neal’s as his hands found their way under his shirt. Peter managed to get it off without ripping it, but his own shirt didn’t survive Neal’s desperate pulling. It ripped and both men laughed. Peter shrugged out of it, tossing it on the floor before returning to the feast that was Neal Caffrey.

His lips discovered that Neal was exquisitely sensitive were his earlobe met his neck. Neal shivered as Peter licked and kissed it. His hips bucked up, slamming their erections together when Peter carefully bit it.

“What else do you like?”

“Everything. I like everything,” was Neal’s panting reply.

“Oh, that’s a terrible, dangerous thing to admit to me.” Peter pushed himself up and looked at Neal, so open and vulnerable and wanting. With a single curl plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen, his tongue just peeking out, he looked like an angel fallen and debauched.

But Neal was no angel as his hand moved back to Peter’s neck and pulled him down for another kiss.

Peter could have spent the rest of eternity kissing him, but he wanted to explore, too. His lips drifted down to the base of Neal’s throat, a perfect cup of muscle. He had the craziest thought, of pouring champagne into that space and sipping it. Maybe the next time…

His lips lingered there before drifting south, finding the perfection of smooth skin and hard muscles, and diamond-hard nipples just waiting for his teeth. He toyed with them, and it was a feast for all his senses as Neal’s whimpers drove him to untold heights of desire.

Neal’s hips kept grinding into him and Peter didn’t know how much long he could last. How much long both of them could last because he felt like all his skin was two sizes too tight. Neal’s hands were clawing at his back, fingers reaching into the waistband of his jeans, underneath his briefs, into the cleft of his ass.

He worked his way back up to Neal’s lips – almost afraid to go too far, to unwrap all the mysteries that lay before him. He kissed Neal again, putting all the desire, all the need into it and was rewarded. Neal was far from passive, his tongue hot and wet and demanding, his own teeth biting as they fought for dominance.

Neal tried to roll him over, but Peter captured his thigh and pulled him closer, their cocks separated only by a few millimeters of fabric and zippers and when Neal bucked hard against him, frotting desperately, he came in a blinding rush. Neal made a sound – between a groan and a scream, and came too.

Peter caught his breath and eased himself into a sitting position. This couch was definitely not made for fucking. He glanced over at Neal, who was still panting. The man looked more like a debauched angel than ever, hair mussed, lips bruised from Peter’s kisses, shirtless, his nipples still peaked and swollen, and of course, his jeans, come-stained from knee to waistband.

Neal opened his eyes, but he still seemed dazed. His hand drifted across his crotch, testing the moisture. In a gesture that made Peter’s cock twitch back to life, Neal lifted his damp fingertip to his mouth and licked them.

He finally spoke. “I really didn’t expect this. This wasn’t what I came here for.” He looked at Peter, his expression grave.

“You didn’t want this?” Peter’s heart froze – had he completely misread the entire situation and gone too far?

“No – wait – yes. Yes, oh, hell – yes I did. I do.” Neal sat up, too. “I just didn’t come over expecting to get so spectacularly fucked.”

“Spectacularly?” Peter never really thought his ego needed a boost.

“Yeah. And then some.” Neal looked down, then back at him, through those ridiculously long eyelashes.

Peter felt like he was back in high school, except in high school he never did anything like this with anyone like Neal Caffrey. “Um, just so you know. I’m usually not the kind of guy who moves so fast.” He didn’t do random hookups and he hadn’t dated in a few years, so maybe that explained his actions. “Are you okay?”

“What a question to ask a man you’ve so spectacularly debauched.”

This time, Peter felt his entire face burn, even the tips of his ears. “You need a thesaurus.”

“Amongst other things. Right now, though, finding a dry pair of pants is a higher priority than improvements to my vocabulary.”

Peter wondered when his living room became the equivalent of Alice’s rabbit hole. “Umm –” He rubbed the back of his neck, nervous despite everything that just happened. “Would you like – ah – to spend the night? With me?”

Neal didn’t take even a few seconds to think about it. “I would love to, Peter.”

He swallowed, feeling like a teenager who just asked his crush to the prom. “I have a guest room – just, you know, if you wanted.” God, he must sound like such an idiot.

Neal just leaned over. Their eyes met and Peter was swallowed by an ocean of pale blue when Neal kissed him, the barest brushing of lips. “Unless you sleep in a hammock, I would prefer to share your bed.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

El had wished Neal luck when he left the bakery that evening. After the contracts came through, after they’d both read and signed and sent them back, Neal just looked at her with those puppy dog eyes, just waiting for her to give him permission to go see Peter. He didn’t need her blessing _or_ her permission, but she gave them anyway. She thought about telling him what she knew about the man (of course she’d told him about their first meeting all those years ago) – that he’d been dating someone who’d been cheating on him. But somehow, it just didn’t feel right, like she was spreading malicious gossip. Whatever happened, happened a long time ago and only Peter and his former partner knew the truth of the matter.

She kissed Neal on the cheek, feeling more like his mother or older sister than the occasional lover, and pushed him out the door. He was taking a very special pastry over to Peter’s (who hadn’t ordered his usual cupcakes). She was just a little jealous that he had an excuse to spend some quality time with the object of his desire. And that thought gave her pause.

Was Reese Hughes really the object of _her_ desire?

Beanpole tall, with a slight paunch, snow white and thinning hair atop a face that made no apologies for the years it had seen; the senior partner of Hughes, Burke wasn’t her typical choice for a romantic entanglement. But there was something about him that made her pause, made her blood run a little hot. Okay, maybe more than a little hot.

And when she thought about it, did she really have a type? People would look at her and Neal and remark about what a perfect couple they were. And wouldn’t their children be stunning? Except that Neal was her dear friend, with a lot of yummy side benefits, but El knew that she wasn’t really what Neal wanted (nor was Sara or Kate or the scant handful other women he’d been out with over the years).

Then there was Mozzie. Sweet, every-so-slightly crazy Mozzie. She didn’t know what she’d do without him. He was brilliant and gentle and she worried that he could be so easily hurt. And so magnificent in bed. He made her laugh and he made her come (sometimes at the same time). He didn’t love her, though. He liked her, he admired her, he would go to the ends of the earth for her if she asked him to, but his heart belonged elsewhere.

That suited El just fine.

She puttered around her apartment, putting the dishes away, sorting through the accumulated mail, wondering if she should bother with dinner or maybe just pop a movie in the DVD player and make some popcorn. It seemed kind of pathetic for a Friday night, except that she was exhausted and tomorrow was still a work day. Invoices and ordering and call-backs. She needed to find a back-up driver because she wasn’t subbing for Mozzie again and she had a feeling that Neal wasn’t going to have too many free evenings in the foreseeable future.

Which meant that she should probably also add a backup baker to the list, too, one who’d work on weekends. When she started Desserts After Dark, she figured it would be a short-lived experiment – riding the crest of the cupcake craze – and she wasn’t going to over-staff. That was five years ago, and now it represented a full half of her income. Corporate events and weddings were still her bread and butter, but she could see the day when all her focus would be on the sweets side of the business, and Neal couldn’t do everything.

El didn’t know if that worried or pleased her. She liked the event planning side of her business, it was where her roots were, but if it divided her focus, she – and her business – could end up in trouble.

And then she had to laugh. She knew she had a bad habit of worrying about problems years down the line. Like the building where the bakery was. She was only in the third year of a ten-year lease, and she worried that the price of the renewal would push her out of business.

No, tonight was not going to be a night for worrying. Tonight was a night for celebration. She just secured a contract with a new client that could send her business skyrocketing. She should go out dancing, or something. Moz was out making deliveries and wouldn’t be free until the early hours. She thought about calling one of her old friends, Dana, but she’d recently separated from her husband and preferred to spend the evening drowning her sorrows and downing margaritas rather than dancing the night away.

Or, and the wicked, wicked thought occurred to her, she could call Reese Hughes. The contracts were signed and delivered. There’d be no conflict of interest. He might not be the type to hit the discos, but she wouldn’t be averse to a few drinks and some good conversation at a quiet bar. Without giving herself a chance to back out, she fetched Reese’ card from her wallet and dialed the cellphone number printed on it.

Life was all about taking chances, wasn’t it?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was a snuggler, an octopus. One leg was slung over his thighs, an arm was draped across his waist, and his chin was tucked on Neal’s shoulder. By rights, he should have been antsy, eager to escape the tangle of another human being. He had always hated it when his bed partners wanted to cuddle. Even El knew that the only thing he liked to hold onto was an ancient feather pillow, more dust than down.

But this morning, Neal found himself relishing Peter’s closeness, the heat and mass of his body, the musk of sex, even the warmth of his breath against his neck. Peter’s cock, already a little tumescent, was nestled between the cheeks of his ass, and although he was a little sore, a little tender from the unaccustomed use, Neal wondered if they could go another round. Or two.

He rubbed against Peter and was rewarded when the other man’s cock twitched.

“Mmmm.” Peter held him a little tighter and rolled his hips against him. “Nice.” Peter's hand moved a little further south and cupped Neal's cock. His thumb swept lazily across the tip, the light calluses delicious against the sensitive skin. They rocked back and forth, so gently, so slowly that Neal wasn’t sure if Peter was awake or if he thought he was dreaming.

His pleasure, when it finally peaked, was more like a sigh than a climax. Peter’s hold loosened and Neal, almost reluctantly, rolled away. But not all that far. It was still early and he let sleep claim him again.

The smell of coffee and the unaccustomed warmth of sunlight across his face woke him an untold number of hours later. Neal blinked and winced at the brightness, not even sure where he was.

“Good morning.”

He rolled over. Peter was sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed, dressed in what had to be the most ragged Harvard University sweatshirt in existence. His hair was plastered with sweat and quite incongruously, he was holding a tiny, delicate china cup (probably the source of the delicious aroma).

“Morning?”

“Yeah, it’s still morning. For a few more hours.”

Neal looked around and saw the bedside clock. It read 9:17. He threw back the covers and sat up. His body felt deliciously well used. He would have preferred to linger in bed, maybe go another round or two with Peter before spending the rest of the day recovering. But he couldn’t, he had obligations.

“You have to be somewhere?” Peter asked with studied diffidence.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to get to the bakery. There are pastries to be made.”

“You work on Saturdays?”

“Most of them. We don’t deliver on Sunday, but there’s usually an event that El’s managing that’ll need some sweets.”

“Ah.” Peter seemed disappointed. He picked up a small thermos and another cup, “Want some coffee.”

“That smells like Italian roast.”

“Freshly ground.”

Neal didn’t care that he was naked. He took the cup and hoped it tasted half as good as it smelled. It didn’t. It tasted twice as good. He finished the cup and sighed. “If I didn’t tell you last night that you were a god amongst men, I am so sorry for the omission.”

Peter blushed and his smile sent Neal’s heart racing. It was sweet and a touch bashful.

Neal finished the rest of the espresso and gave Peter back the cup. “I really do need to get to work. Mind if I shower?”

“No, not at all. I washed your clothes, by the way.” Peter gestured to a pile on the dresser. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Neal blinked. How is it that this man wasn’t someone’s husband? He almost asked Peter that but instead thanked him with a kiss.

Peter’s eyes were dark with arousal when Neal pulled back. He asked, more of a growl than a polite question. “Mind if I join you? I went for a run this morning.”

Which explained the sweaty hair and clothes barely fit for public display. Neal thought he looked delicious and given what just passed between them, he had every expectation that they’d have sex in the shower. “I couldn’t think of any better way to start my day.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“El, you home? I’ve brought breakfast!” Moz used his key and let himself into El’s Fort Greene duplex. “I’ve got bagel and herb tofu spread, freshly made from that place you like.” There was no answer, but she was definitely home. He could see the lights on upstairs, and her shoes and handbag were on the living room floor. “El?”

Not waiting for an answer, he starting to make coffee.

He heard a door open – if he wasn’t mistaken by the distinctive squeak – it was her bedroom door. El called down from the top of the steps. “Moz? What are you doing here?”

“I thought we’d have breakfast together.” He called back as he took out plates and knives and napkins. No need for forks with the bagels. He emptied the bag – in addition to the bagels and “cream cheese,” there was a bottle of freshly made mango-carrot-kiwi juice, a box of unsweetened Almond Dream, and a small container of half-and-half for El, since she didn’t completely share his aversion to cow lactation products.

“Umm, Moz, sweetie – this isn’t a good time.”

“El?” He finally looked up. El was standing there wrapped in a kimono that matched her eyes, her hair mussed, her face still bearing traces of yesterday’s cosmetics, and if his eyes didn’t deceive him, a small, oval bruise on her neck. A hickey.

He didn’t have to ask what was going on. It was pretty obvious. “Ah, you’re not alone.”

She bit her lip, looking all too adorably repentant. “I’m sorry, Moz.”

He took a deep breath, letting his hurt do battle with his sense of fairness and justice. Hurt was easily defeated. He smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about, we’re free agents. No commitments other than friendship, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, we’re friends. Always.”

Moz pulled off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. He hated doing that – a tick, a tell, a nervous gesture that he couldn’t control. And yet, he had nothing to be nervous about. “I guess this is a good a time as any to tell you that The Vulture’s back in town?”

El gave him a puzzled look. “Who?”

“Sally. Remember her?”

That got a gratifying reaction. “Mozzie, that’s a terrible thing to call your ex-wife.”

“Not quite my ex, not yet and maybe not ever. And besides, it’s not an insult, it’s her _nom de guerre_. She’s going to be lecturing on information transparency in the age of cyber-security at the New School next month.”

“And you think you can patch things up?”

“Don’t know if I want to go that far, since she lives most of the year in California, and I’m not allowed back, even though the BHA has been dead for almost twenty years. But it’s not to say that I wouldn’t mind taking care of her physical security while she’s here, if you know what I mean.”

El wrapped her robe a little tighter around her body, which only served to highlight those luscious breasts. “Yes, Moz, I certainly get the double entendre.”

Moz went back into the kitchen and contemplated the breakfast he wasn’t going to be sharing. “I’ll leave you the bagels, the juice and the cream, but you don’t mind if I take the tofu spread and the almond milk?”

“No, Moz – not at all.”

She kissed his cheek and he had to smile. El was one of those very special people he never wanted to lose. Her presence in his life didn’t start and end in bed.

“See you Monday?” She asked.

“Without fail.” He wondered if he should give her back her key, but decided not to. Or at least, not yet. Things might not work out with whoever was in her bed right now, and besides, Moz figured there was no point in giving it back. Elizabeth knew that keys were just a formality with him. “Enjoy your weekend, El.”

He found himself on the sidewalk, blinking against the late morning sunlight, without the faintest idea about what to do with the rest of his day. Moz perked up when he remembered that Gina was working today. Luckily, he had A.B. Tattersall’s latest in his bag. Maybe she’d sit with him when she took her break. There was something to be said about a courtship conducted over a mutual appreciate of genre fiction.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Breakfast?” Peter watched Neal get dressed and it occurred to him that he could spend the rest of his life like this. It was a stray thought, one he was quick to dismiss. For all that he lived a quiet life, he wasn’t a man given to domesticity and after a decade of living alone, he wouldn’t know a damn thing about how to get on with someone every single day.

“What’s the matter?” Neal must have seen something in his face.

Peter just smiled and asked again, “Breakfast? The most important meal of the day, you know.”

Neal looked torn. “I’m going to have to pass – I’m running late as it is.” He checked the time on his phone and grimaced. “You have any idea how long it will take to get a cab if I call now?”

“Cab?”

“I don’t own a car. The subway’s good enough, but the bakery’s not on the local line here. I’d have to go all the way over to Atlantic Avenue and then catch the Carnarsie line. On a Saturday morning, it’s quicker and easier to take a cab.”

Peter didn’t think before asking, “Want a lift? I’ve got a few errands to run this morning in that area, so it wouldn’t be a problem.” It was a small lie; he could just as easily get what he needed locally, no reason – other than spending a few more minutes with Neal – to head into Williamsburg.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Neal’s smile, the way his eyes glowed, was well worth whatever inconvenience it would be to go to East Williamsburg.

“Not at all, I wouldn’t have offered if I minded. Besides, you could give me a tour.”

“There’s not much to see. It’s an industrial facility in an industrial section.”

“But you make my cupcakes there, and you know what those cupcakes mean to me.” Peter teased and hoped he didn’t come across as weird.

Apparently not. Neal let out a shout of laughter. “All right, I’ll show you around. Who knows, you might even find a few extras to take home with you.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to off a man who’s got an admitted addiction,” he joked.

“Well, now you can come pick them up, you don’t have to wait for a delivery.”

“Or you could just deliver them yourself.” Again, Peter spoke without thinking.

"Yes, I certainly could." Neal's smile was sweetness itself. "I'm ready whenever you are."

The drive to East Williamsburg took about twenty minutes. Peter was mildly troubled by the industrial quality of the neighborhood. Most of the buildings were decorated with graffiti and sported razor wire and high security fences. "Don't tell me you walk to and from the subway in the middle of the night.”

Neal looked at him like he was a little crazy. Maybe he was. “I’m a grown man, Peter, and this isn’t the 1970s. The area might be industrial, but it’s not a crime-riddled sink hole. I can take care of myself.”

“Okay, okay. Just …”

“You’re concerned and that’s sweet.”

Peter stopped in front of a gate and Neal got out of the car to open the gate. Peter drove through and followed Neal around to the back. He had to admit that maybe he’d overreacted. The loading area was spotless, no graffiti, no loose trash.

He followed Neal inside.

Neal took him into a large, empty kitchen. “So – this is it. Not really all that exciting.”

Peter looked around. There were a lot of ovens and a lot of very clean surfaces. Yes, he’d have to agree with Neal, not very exciting. “I sort of feel like a kid who accidentally wandered behind the scenes at Disneyworld. Or Dorothy when she found out who the Wizard really was.”

“Aww, I’ve killed the magic?”

Peter shrugged, feeling all kinds of silly over the letdown.

“Maybe this will make you feel better?” Neal had opened a glass case and took out one of his famous red velvet cupcakes. “It’s not a gateau, but I know how much you like them.”

“Almost as much as I like you.” Again, the words were spoken without thought. It felt far too soon to make that declaration, and yet it didn’t feel wrong at all. Peter was grateful, though, that Neal had used the word “like” and not “love.” _That_ would have been ridiculous.

But Neal didn’t seem to find anything odd in the sentiment. “Good, because I’d hate to come in second behind my own baked goods.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment or two, Peter with his hands shoved in his pockets, Neal holding the cupcake. He gave Peter a wry grin. “Shall I box this up?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“I know you said that you’ve got some errands this morning …” Neal handed him a small red and gold box. “And hanging around, watching me bake for the next few hours probably isn’t going to be highlight of your weekend, but if you’re not doing anything tonight, would you like to have dinner with me?”

Neal ended on a nervous, breathless rush and something cracked open inside Peter. He never thought that Neal was some smooth operator or a sexy player just out for a good time, but he had always seemed a hell of a lot more self-assured that Peter ever was or ever would be. His anxious hesitancy was unbelievably charming. “Yeah, I would – absolutely. Where would you like to go?”

Neal surprised him again. “Would you like to have dinner at my place – I’d love to cook for you.”

“Really? I’d think after working in the kitchen all day, you’d want some time away from this.” Peter gestured around the room.

“No, not really. Baking is science, cooking is art, and I don’t get a chance to cook as much as I used to. My landlady had hired me as a private chef when I first met her, but the past year or so, she’s been traveling more than she’s been home. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for myself, so I end up eating pretty basic stuff. I’d love to make dinner for you.”

“Only if you’re sure. We can go out.” Peter didn’t know why he was arguing the point. Neal wanted to see him again, he _really_ wanted to. Tonight.

“I’m definitely sure.”

The light in Neal’s eyes made Peter want to stay, watch him work, and maybe take advantage of the vast quantity of horizontal surfaces here.

“Okay then. I should let you get to work.” He turned to go, feeling aroused and awkward.

“Umm, Peter?” Neal grabbed the back of his shirt. “You’ve forgotten a few things.”

He was confused and looked down at his hands, holding the box with the cupcake. What else did he need? “I did? I have?”

“Yup. I think you’ll need my address – unless you’ve already done a background check on me?” Neal didn’t seem especially distressed by that idea. Or maybe he was just kidding and didn’t realize that Peter had such resources.

“No, no – of course not.” He sort of felt like a fool. “So, where do you live?”

“79 Riverside Drive.”

The address seemed vaguely familiar, but all he said was, “I have friends who live on Riverside. It’s a nice neighborhood.”

“It is. I like it a lot. How does eight o’clock sound?”

“Good – should I bring a bottle of something?”

Neal thought for a minute. “How about a nice white, maybe?”

Peter nodded. “Will do. See you at eight.” He turned to go again.

Neal grabbed him again.

“What did I forget this time?”

Neal grinned. “This.” Even though Peter was twenty pounds heavier and six inches taller, Neal had the advantage of surprise as he hauled him close and planted a kiss on his lips. Peter didn’t even think about resisting – why should he? Neal’s fingers curled around the back of his head, cupping his skull; his nails scraping against his skin was one of the most erotic experiences in his life. His lips parted and Neal’s tongue stole in like a sneak thief.

Peter might have dropped the cupcake box and taken control except that Neal ended the kiss with a small nip on his lower lip and stepped back. It was gratifying to see that Neal was breathing just as heavily as he was. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glowing and Peter strongly resisted the urge to start something they’d both enjoy finishing.

“I’ve got to go … unless I’ve forgotten something else?”

“No – I don’t think so. See you tonight.”

“Can’t wait.”

Neal stood there, smiling and Peter just about floated off on a cloud of pure happiness.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 _There’s no fool like an old fool._ Reese listened to Elizabeth talking with someone downstairs. A man, who apparently knew her well enough to have a key and thought nothing of letting himself into her home. As he listened, he wondered just what he thought he was doing – starting something with such a young and vibrant woman. In the cool light of morning, it felt ridiculous.

But last night, it was anything but that. Elizabeth Mitchell had called him, out of the blue, and asked him if he’d like to have a drink with her. He didn’t think twice about accepting her offer, and mentioned that Clint Holmes was playing at the Carlyle. Would she be interested?

Elizabeth laughed and the sound was one of pure pleasure. Of course she’d love to go, jazz was one of her favorite types of music. He had felt a little foolish, waiting for Elizabeth in the lobby, but the light in her eyes when she saw him erased those doubts. She argued with him about paying the cover charge – since she was the one to ask him out. Reese countered that he’d been the one to suggest the venue, and besides he was an old-fashioned kind of guy.

“But not so old-fashioned to be horrified when a woman asks you out?” Elizabeth’s question was pert, her smile a touch mischievous.

“I’m here, how horrified could I be?” Reese had hoped he sounded amused but wondered if he came off like a prig. He’d never considered himself an object of desire and even if he wasn’t old quite enough to collect social security, he had never been the type of man beautiful women sought out for companionship. Too tall, too stern, too humorless. That’s what his ex-wife, Gail, said about him. Although Reese could never figure out how “too tall” fit into that collection of negative qualities. He couldn’t do a damn thing about his height.

Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind that he towered over her. She didn’t find him too stern and certainly not humorless. He could still hear her laugher when he told her some silly story about his early days at the FBI. He didn’t think she was playing him – the firm had already given her company the contract. There was nothing she’d gain by asking him out.

Or by sleeping with him.

He kept listening, trying to make sense of the conversation, but the voices were too distant and neither Elizabeth nor her visitor seemed particularly upset about anything. After a minute or so, Reese heard the front door open and close, then silence. Then footsteps as Elizabeth came back upstairs.

She stood at the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. “Sorry about that, Reese. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”

“Your friend wasn’t expecting you to have company.” He wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “Does he usually come over for breakfast?” Reese wanted to ask, _“Does he often stay for breakfast?”_

Elizabeth came back into the bedroom and untied her robe. “Moz is Moz, he’s not one for respecting socially-imposed borders.”

Reese didn’t know what that meant. But since Elizabeth was getting back into bed with him, he figured it didn’t matter.

“He did bring fresh bagels, though.”

“And he doesn’t mind that he’s not the one sharing them with you?”

Elizabeth made herself comfortable, tucking herself under his arm. “No, not at all. We’ve never been exclusive. Besides, he’s crushing on a waitress at his favorite diner and his wife’s going to be in town in the fall. He’ll be fine.”

“Ah.” That was the only thing he could think of saying.

“It’s early yet, how about we … take advantage of it?” She wriggled delicately against him.

Putting aside his apprehensions, Reese kissed her in the sweet spot behind her jaw. “I think that sounds like a splendid idea.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal fussed over the pot of mussels, inspecting each one, making sure it was perfect. He was happy in a way he hadn’t been in a very long time. It was like all the parts of the universe were spinning at just the right speed, in just the right order.

Thinking back, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt like this. Energized, but content. Anticipation was bubbling like champagne in his veins, but so was satisfaction. He was a mass of contradictions, but didn’t mind that at all.

Peter Burke was doing this to. He still couldn’t believe he had the balls to look up the man’s address and go over there. And bring him cake. And spill his guts about The Greatest Cake.

And kiss him.

The memory of what they did on the couch, in bed, in the shower – hell, that kiss at the bakery – distracted him. Neal felt himself get hard and looking down, he had to smile at the bulge under his apron.

But it was more than sex, spectacular as it was. From the moment he’d laid eyes on the man in that conference room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’s met his fate.

Neal paused at that realization. _No, not possible._

He barely knew Peter Burke. He’d only meet the man, what, thirty-six hours ago? Definitely not possible.

And yet his heart asked, _But why not?_

Because, because he didn’t – and Neal’s brain sort of stuttered at the words – fall in love with someone like that. He wasn’t a romantic, he wasn’t impulsive.

_Stop lying to yourself._

Okay, so he was something of a romantic and he wasn’t one to restrain too many of his impulses.

Standing there, in one of June’s kitchens (there were five in the house, not including the efficiency in his apartment), a half-crushed clove of garlic under his knife, Neal waited for the panic to set in. And waited.

But it didn’t. The only thing he felt was a crazy sort of peaceful resignation, that everyone else – his failed relationships with Gordon and Matthew, the flings with Vincent, Sara, Kate, even El, were just warm-up acts for the rest of his life. A life he wanted to spend with Peter Burke.

Neal smiled and went back to chopping. He was going to make Peter a dinner he’d never forget, a meal that would tease his senses, linger in his memory, one that he’s recall at the odd moments of his life and when he did, Neal would be there to remember it with him.

It wasn’t lost on Neal that mussels and fries – _moules-frites_ – wasn’t the most romantic of dishes. It was a little messy, a little pungent, but it was a meal that Peter would enjoy far more than some overly fussy presentation. There was Prosciutto de Parma and perfectly ripe Canary melon for starters, and for dessert, he was going to surprise Peter. No cupcakes, no elaborate torte or rich confection. Something simple, something memorable – freshly made madeleine cookies and Meyer lemon and strawberry semifreddo.

He finished the preparation. All the aromatics were chopped, the potatoes par-fried, the mussels cleaned and everything else ready to go. Neal checked the clock, it was a little after seven. Just enough time to get everything upstairs and take a quick shower.

Under the hot spray, Neal couldn’t stop thinking about the shower he’d taken with Peter this morning – how Peter handled him so expertly, bringing him to the edge of ecstasy again and again before letting him come. He couldn’t stop thinking about how the water cascaded over him as he knelt at Peter’s feet and sucked that beautiful cock.

But he didn’t jerk off. No – he didn’t want to waste his desire. It would keep and be better for the waiting.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Peter had grabbed the first parking spot he saw in Neal’s neighborhood, at Riverside and 79th street, and walked the few blocks north. He stopped in front of the address Neal had given him, and shook his head in disbelief. Now he knew why the address had seemed so familiar. June Ellington lived here. She and her late husband were old friends of his and some the very first clients he’d taken on after he’d left the FBI.

Small world didn’t even begin to describe the connection here. A few years ago, shortly after Byron had died, June told him that she was taking on a lodger, someone she’d met when she had tried to sell a few of Byron’s suits. The young man had shown an extraordinary appreciation for custom tailoring and they’d gotten to talking.

He’d be working as her private chef, and his wages would be offset in his rent. Peter had counseled against that, not only was it was a tax law nightmare, letting a complete stranger live in her private home seemed downright foolish.

“But that’s why I have you, Peter.” June told him in those elegant and implacable tones. “You’ll run a background check.” He did and had found nothing remarkable in the report, nothing that would indicate that June’s prospective tenant was a psychopath looking to take advantage of an old woman. She overrode Peter’s other concerns and rented her fourth floor suite to the man at a significantly below-market rate. He just signed and accepted that June was her own woman and would defer to no one.

Now, carrying a few bottles of wine – a Sauvignon blanc – anticipating dinner and further developments in this new relationship, Peter tried to remember anything else that was in the report. The best he could come up with was that June’s tenant had graduated with honors from the CIA, which stuck in his head because he’d done a double take. In this instance, the CIA was the Culinary Institute of America, not the spy agency. There might have been something about a failed business in the report, but Peter couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he was not going to pull the file and take a look.

No, absolutely not.

A maid answered the door and took the wine bottles from him. He told her he was here to see Neal and she showed him into the front parlor. Neal was waiting, smiling and as gorgeous as he remembered. He was wearing a dark green shirt that made his eyes glow. Quite a few times over the past few hours, Peter had convinced himself that there was no way the reality of Neal Caffrey matched his memory. He was wrong, of course.

June was there too, as elegant as ever. Clearly, from the puzzled expression on her face, she was surprised to see him here. “Peter?”

Neal looked from him to June before stating the obvious. “You two know each other?”

“Peter’s not only my accountant, but a very dear friend.” June didn’t elaborate as she reached out and hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to see you, but it’s been too long. I think our paths last crossed at the gala at the Met for reopening of the European Paintings wing.”

Peter hugged her back. “Yes, that was what, three months ago? Far too long.”

“Time does fly. But I can’t believe you’re seeing Neal. He didn’t mention your name when he told me he had a dinner date with – how did he put it? A god come to earth.”

Peter blinked and cast a quick glance at Neal, who was blushing.

She added, with a devilish chuckle, “Well, if you like them tall and all muscly, maybe you are just that.”

Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Umm, thanks?”

June, deliberately oblivious, continued, “Well, I’m going to leave you two to your date.” She admonished Neal, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” and floated out of the room on a cloud of Givenchy.

Neal stood there, still blushing, hands in his pockets.

Peter had to ask, “A god come to earth?”

The up from under look Neal gave him was scorching. “Yeah, and you have a problem with that?”

“No, and come here.” Peter pulled Neal towards him and kissed him like it had been months and not hours since they parted.

The sound Neal made as their lips met – a cross between a purr and a growl – almost made Peter forget they were in the front parlor. Almost, but not quite.

He pulled away reluctantly. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, dinner.” Neal shook his head and laughed. “You really make me lose my head.”

“I could say the same.”

Neal took his hand and led him upstairs – with just a brief diversion to pick up the wine bottles.

In the apartment, Neal shook his head in bemusement. “I can’t get over that you and June know each other. It’s actually a little creepy. You and June, you and Elizabeth.”

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. “Yeah – I had forgotten about El. The world is small – but not _that_ small.

He walked around the apartment. “You know, once upon a time, this space had been Byron Ellington’s art studio. He was one of the most well-respected painters of the mid-Twentieth century.”

“Yes – June had told me. She said that it had been the gathering place for artists and musicians trying to keep alive the cultural traditions of the Harlem Renaissance.”

Peter nodded. “It worked for a while – until Byron’s best friend, Ford Toman, stole a fortune from them. He was Byron’s manager, and not only was he selling Byron’s work and never paying him, he had access to all of their finances.”

“June said that she and Byron were betrayed by someone she’d trusted with her life, but she never told me the details. It didn’t feel right to pry; June looked so lost when she told me.”

“Ford’s betrayal had devastated them. That’s how we met. The man had been implicated in some dodgy real estate scams I was investigating. As I started digging, I discovered that he’d been using money from the sale of Byron’s artwork to cover the losses, and as those losses mounted, Ford started emptying the Ellington’s accounts. It took everything that Byron and June had to rebuild their lives. In the end, the cost was too high. Byron died – a heart attack – the night before a major retrospective of his career opened at the Guggenheim.”

Neal shook his head. “I have to wonder how June could ever bring herself to trust a stranger, to trust me like she has.”

“She’s an exceptional woman.”

“Very.” Neal kissed him again. “And thank you for being there to help her.”

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed. Neal pretended not to notice as he started fussing in the small kitchen area.

Peter took the time to look around the space. It had been a few years since he’d had been up here, and it looked nothing like his memories. Gone were the racks of canvases in various stages of completion, the easels and the posing stand for the life model. Probably the only thing that remained from those days was the wine rack filled with exceptional vintages. The scents of linseed oil and gesso and the ever-present perfume of good quality weed were replaced with the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce and a faint hint of the ocean.

“Smells good,” Peter commented.

“Hope you like mussels.” Neal asked, oblivious to his reverie. “I never even thought to ask if you had a shellfish allergy.” He turned back to Peter, wooden spoon in hand, a mildly worried expression on his face.

“Nope, no allergy and I love them.”

“And fries?”

“You’re making me _moules-frites_? Even better. Haven’t had that since the last time I was in Brussels.”

“Isn’t it the national dish of Belgium? Or is that waffles?”

“No, it’s pretty much mussels and fries.” Of all the topics of conversation.

Neal set the pot on the stove to simmer. He opened one of the bottles of wine and asked, “When were you in Belgium?”

“About twelve years ago. It was for a case.”

“Back when you were an FBI agent?”

“Yeah.”

Neal handed him a glass and gestured towards the terrace. “It’s a nice night, I thought maybe we’d dine _al fresco_.”

He followed Neal through the French doors, standing next to him at the railing. “What a view, I’ve always thought this was the best ones in Manhattan.”

“I guess you’ve been here before?”

“Yeah – after Ford, after everything collapsed for Bryon and June, I kept in touch. They seemed like people I needed to know, I needed to keep in my life.”

“Was that how you became their accountant?”

“Pretty much. When things got difficult at the Bureau after Reese retired, I became a little self-destructive.” Peter didn’t want to tell Neal – not now – about his failed relationship.

“Self-destructive? No, I can’t see you like that.”

“I was. I started drinking. Not a lot, but more than I should have.” When Neal gave him – and his wine glass – a troubled look, Peter was quick to dismiss his concerns. “No, I’m not an alcoholic, but my drinking was on the verge of interfering with my job. And I was beginning to hate my job so much that I didn’t care.”

Neal turned around, so his back was to the city and he faced Peter.

Peter looked up; it was just becoming dark overhead. “June and Byron – they gave me a refuge. This was a place to come and be myself. They never judged me, they didn’t care that I was gay. Hell, they tried to fix me up with some of their friends. As bad as things were for them for a while, they never closed their hearts or their minds.” Peter leaned on the balustrade, watching the sun begin to set behind the city skyline. “June was the one who told me that I needed to leave. That I needed to find a new path for my life. Because the one I was on was going to kill me. She told me to grab onto Reese’s offer and never let go.”

“That must have been hard – giving up something you’d worked for so long.”

“I think it was the hardest thing I ever did, turning in my badge. I felt like a failure.”

Neal put down his wineglass and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, his thumb caressing Peter’s pulse point. “You are anything but a failure. You’ve scripted a second act for yourself that’s better, richer, more satisfying than most people’s first act.”

Peter turned his hand and captured Neal’s fingers. “Thank you. And I know that now, and I’m grateful to have had that opportunity. But it took a long time for me to realize that – for me to become comfortable in my skin again. And talking about second acts – you’ve rebuilt your own life pretty well, too.”

Neal’s smile was wry. “And amazingly, we own both our second acts to June and Byron.”

“Yeah.”

“Makes you wonder…”

“About?”

“Whether we were destined to meet. You and June – you’d have visited her here eventually. Or I’d have gone with her to some event you were at.”

Peter turned the idea over in his mind. “It’s kind of scary, when you think about it.”

Neal moved a step closer; they were touching from thigh to chest. “It’s fate. Karma. Destiny. Wheels and gears spinning around, bringing us together.”

Peter threaded his fingers through Neal’s curls and brought him close for a kiss. And he couldn’t help but think, _I hope they don’t break us apart, too._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Three Months Later_ **

“I’m off,” Elizabeth poked her head into the kitchen. Neal was wiping down the counters and putting away the last of the equipment. It was close to seven and he was getting ready to leave, too. “Unless you want a lift over to Peter’s?”

Neal gave her a smile and shook his head. “No, I’m good. I’m going to head home this evening.”

“Is everything okay?” El sounded a touch concerned.

“Everything’s fine. Peter has some business function he can’t get out of, but he’s going to stop by when he’s done. Spend the night.” _Probably. Hopefully._

“I’m still surprised you haven’t moved in together.” This wasn’t the first time that El had commented that they maintained separate residences.

“It’s only been three months. Besides, our schedules are so different that we’d probably see less of each other if we started co-habitating.” Since the best defense was a good offense, “And when are you going to give in and put Reese out of his misery?”

El shrugged. “I keep thinking about it. Everything would change, you know? Moving in with him. I haven’t lived with anyone since I left college. I don’t know if I remember how. Besides, it feels too quick.”

Neal had to note, “It’s been three months.”

And of course, El retorted. “Or, it’s _only_ been three months.”

“There’s a joke in there about lesbians and u-hauls, I think.”

El laughed and swatted at him. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift? I’m heading into Manhattan; I wouldn’t mind dropping you off. Your place isn’t that much out of my way.”

“Nah, I’m good. With Friday night traffic, I’ll probably be home before you get close to the Upper West Side.”

“Okay – but don’t say I didn’t ask.” El left with a pert sniff.

Neal was a little sorry that he didn’t take her up on her offer, if just to spend time with a dear friend. Their lives were growing so divergent these days.

El was all but living with Reese Hughes in his classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue and he was gentle pressuring her to make it full time. Neal had the feeling that if she did succumb, he’d be baking her wedding cake before the year was out. Reese was an old-fashioned kind of guy, and while El was anything but old-fashioned herself, the two of them were well-suited for each other. Seeing them together, it was clear that they didn’t have in a stereotypical May-December romance. In fact, they seemed more like an old married couple that two people in the early days of courtship. They completed each other’s sentences and had their own shorthand for the little things in their lives. Nothing about El and Reese was hearts-and-flowers lovey-dovey, but you couldn’t mistake the affection, the respect, and even the passion between them.

Pity he couldn’t say the same about his relationship with Peter.

Yes, there certainly was affection, respect and passion between them. They had sparks galore, but something was missing, but Neal couldn’t put his finger on what that something was.

They’d talk for hours about everything under the sun – art and music, sports, politics, world events. He sometimes had to pinch himself because their compatibility seemed so unreal. Their sex life was fantastic; Peter was everything he could want, and then some. Neal always knew, with the right person – the right man – he’d take the most pleasure in submitting. Peter was so perfectly, so casually dominant, that Neal couldn’t _not_ submit with utter joy.

And yet, he had the feeling that Peter didn’t feel the same way. There were odd looks, pauses and uncomfortable silences. An emotional distance that Neal didn’t know how to close. He had this nagging sensation that something was wrong, something that couldn’t be fixed.

Like last Saturday night, when they were watching the Yankees lose again. Well, Peter was watching and Neal was reading, but it was a companionable way to spend an evening. He looked up when Peter shut off the television and muttered a few choice words about a certain third baseman who couldn’t tell the truth if someone held a gun to his head.

Peter had tossed the remote on the coffee table and flopped back with a deep sigh. Neal put his book down. “It’s only a ball game – one of, what, a hundred and sixty-two in the regular season?”

That earned him a proud smile from Peter. “Do you know how much I love that you know that?”

Neal ducked his head, a little shy. “I’m not really a sports geek, but I’m American – I also know that there are sixteen games in a regular season of football and eighty-two games in a basketball season. But when it comes to hockey, I don’t have a clue.”

Peter had laughed, but there was an undercurrent to the sound that troubled Neal. “Neither do I. I know you really would rather be doing anything else than sitting here, listening to the ball game.”

“No, not at all. I want to spend time with you and if this is what you want to do, why not?”

“Really?” Peter seemed skeptical. “Come on, a Saturday night in July, and you prefer to hang around and read while I’m giving myself heartburn over a team of millionaire slackers? I would think you’d much rather be out dancing or clubbing or having fun than pretending to be a couch potato.” There was too much bitterness in those questions.

Neal took off his glasses and set them down on top of his book. “I don’t know what gave you that idea. If I wanted to go out, I’d have said something. I’m thirty-six years old and know how to speak my own mind. If I didn’t want to be here, having a quiet evening with you, I wouldn’t be.”

Peter looked at him, like he was judging the truth of those words and not quite believing them. “Sorry – I just feel like I’m stifling you.”

“Why?” Neal had been honestly puzzled. “I work hard six days a week. I have no desire to do anything right now but relax. And by relax, I mean, I spend the best part of my week with you.” Neal reached out and took Peter’s hand. He wasn’t sure if those words satisfied Peter, but the odd tension evaporated. At least for the rest of the evening.

There’d been other times that this tension blossomed like some noxious flower, when Neal felt like they’d been talking at cross purposes – or that there were two conversations going on. One that was verbal; the other, pure subtext that Neal couldn’t quite get a handle on.

And then there was the past. His past, Peter’s past.

In every relationship he’d been it – there came a point when you talked about your exes. About the people who’d been in your life. It was part of the courtship ritual, even if you went from delivering cupcakes to having your laundry done in less than twenty-four hours. But no matter how many times Neal tried to get Peter to tell him about the guys (and maybe girls) that he’d dated, Peter clammed up, or deflected, or changed the subject. Neal even tried telling him about his own prior relationships.

But Peter was having none of it. He wasn’t interested and he didn’t seem to care.

So, Neal drew three conclusions. Peter was a virgin – or more appropriately, had been a virgin. Or he’d never been in a long term relationship and was afraid to admit it. Or he’d been with someone who’d hurt him, badly.

Since Peter was the best, most creative lover Neal ever had, the idea that he’d been a virgin until the night they screwed on the couch was ludicrous in the extreme. And while it was just as odd that Peter might never have had a serious relationship with another person, or even just with another man – he couldn’t imagine that he’d be too embarrassed to tell him so.

The last and most logical conclusion was that there was something – no, someone – in Peter’s past that damaged him. Okay, Neal could understand that. No one liked to talk about failure, particularly in the early stages of a relationship. He may have told Peter about Matthew, but he’d need to be water-boarded to admit anything about his own humiliating experience with Gordon.

Even if that was the case, did it explain or excuse the moments of emotional coldness? The distance that Peter seemed to place between them? It was becoming obvious that he was only allows into a part of Peter’s life. Maybe that should have been enough for him, but there were times – like tonight – when he wanted more. He wanted to fit into Peter’s life the way Peter fit into his.

As Neal locked up, he tried to rationalize, he tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. That he loved Peter and that would be enough to make this work. What else was he going to do? Confront Peter about this coldness, which seemed ridiculous. Peter really wasn’t cold; he was just a man who was used to being on his own. And it had been only three months – right?

The forty-minute subway ride back into Manhattan was usually a good time to think and sort things out, but Neal couldn’t find any clarity.

What he knew was that Peter was Peter. He was a good man. An honest man. Someone who cared for him and respected him, someone Neal knew he could trust. He’d never had that in a relationship before.

Yes, he and Elizabeth cared and respected each other and they certainly trusted each other, but they were friends. Sex was a convenience for them, a way to scratch an itch without complications. There was no question that he’d never feel for her what he felt for Peter, and he know that love ever entered into her equations.

Thinking about Elizabeth reminded him of the other women who’d been part of his life. Kate had been sweet and young, but far too damaged to ever trust anyone. They met in culinary school and lasted all the way to graduation, fighting and fucking and fighting some more. She’d taken off for California and last Neal had heard, she was working at a vegan naturist colony near Big Sur.

He thought about Sara. Was it really only six months ago that he’d felt heartbroken and betrayed when she left for Europe? Not that the feeling lasted for long. He had liked her a hell of a lot and at one point he thought that she could be the one for him, as strange a combination as a baker and a supermodel could be. But after she’d left, he was quick to realize that it was the hint of danger he brought to her life that drove their relationship – and that was not the recipe for the happily ever after he dreamed of. He’d always think of her with great fondness, but there was no ache, no gaping Sara Ellis-shaped hole in his soul.

For that matter, despite how badly it had ended, there was never really a Matthew Keller-shaped hole or even one that remotely looked like Gordon Taylor.

Those failed relationships had saddened him, make him a little wary, a little wiser, but they didn’t permanently damage him.

Peter, though ... The very simple truth was that he loved Peter Burke and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. He wanted to make Peter as happy as Peter made him. And yet, those moments when he wasn’t at all certain just what, if anything, Peter felt for him made him want to run and hide and forget he’d ever met the man.

And that would destroy him completely.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was bored out of his mind and tried not to be so obvious when he looked at his watch. It was nearly eleven. Arthur Kostler was a long-standing client of the firm and was worth at least six figures a year in billings. The food was decent (although the dessert was barely passable to his palate), the wine was better than decent, the company sparkling, but all Peter could think about was how much he wanted to leave and get to Neal’s place. Instead, he was stuck in a Central Park South penthouse, listening to a blow-by-blow description of his recent Twentieth  
Century Paintings sale at Sotheby’s, and his own hard-fought acquisition of a pair of Byron Ellington streetscapes that the artist’s widow had decided to sell.

Elaine, Arthur’s wife, noticed his abstraction and gave him a sympathetic smile before leaning over and whispering in his ear. “He does like to go on, doesn’t he?”

Peter shrugged and smiled back.

She took pity on him and the rest of the gathering. “Dearest, I don’t think anyone else is all that interested. They want to _see_ the paintings, right?”

The other guests nodded quite vigorously and Arthur gave a good natured laugh. “I do apologize – I tend to get a little carried away.” He stood up. “Come along; let me show off my newest pride and joy.”

Elaine tucked her arm in his and pulled him over to the balcony. “I do wish you’d let me fix you up, Peter. I think that you and my eldest son would get along famously.”

“Elaine, your son lives in Washington and he’s too young for me.” Peter had met Jason Kostler. He was nice enough, but from the few times they’d spoken, it was pretty clear to Peter that the man was a closet case. Not that Peter couldn’t understand that. Jason was a senior staff member for a U.S. Senator. The political world in DC was not particularly gay-friendly. Even these days. He didn’t want to badmouth him to his mother, who thought her child was perfect.

“Jason’s not too young for you. He’ll be in New York next week, and besides, age is irrelevant when the heart is true.”

“Did you read that on a greeting card?”

She laughed. “You found me out. It was on the card Arthur gave me for my birthday, because, you know, I’m at least twenty-five years younger than he is.”

Peter played along, “Hmm, you sure you don’t mean thirty-five?” Arthur and Elaine had been childhood sweethearts, who, to their parent’s horror, had eloped the summer after their high school graduation.

“Maybe forty, but you’re deflecting, Peter. You’re very good at that, you know.”

“What can I say?”

Elaine deserved points for persistence. “That you’ll see Jason when he comes in to town next weekend. I really do think you’d hit it off.”

Peter wondered what would put Elaine off and decided on the truth. “I’m actually seeing someone, so being set up on a blind date might be kind of awkward.”

“Peter Burke!” She gave him a light slap on the shoulder. “You’re seeing someone and you didn’t bring him tonight?”

He shrugged. “This is business; I didn’t think it would be appropriate.”

Now Elaine looked hurt. “Business? Arthur and I are only business? I thought we were friends, people you enjoyed spending time with?” She stepped away from him. The humor left her normally animated face. The disappointment that replaced it made her look a decade older than her fifty-seven years.

Peter felt like an ass. “I’m sorry – that’s not what I meant. I am proud to count you and Arthur as my personal friends, as well as my clients. It’s just that Neal is …” How could he explain?

“A boy toy? You’re having a middle-aged fling and are embarrassed?” He could see that Elaine was trying to salvage something of this conversation and their friendship. “He’s completely, wildly inappropriate? Prone to giggling?”

Peter could accept any of those excuses and maybe save this relationship. They’d laugh a little, and she’d push her son at him. He could even go out for drinks with the man, if just to appease his mother. But that would all be a disastrous, monstrous lie.

“No. Neal’s not my boy toy, he’s not a fling.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, guilty and embarrassed. “He’s someone I’m very much involved with – but I just never thought to invite him.”

Elaine looked at him, the disappointment was gone, but now there was speculation in her eyes. “Why not?”

“Because … I don’t know. We spend most of the weekends together, but we live separate lives otherwise.”

“Why? Are you embarrassed by him?”

“No! Of course not.” The truth was the opposite. He didn’t want to share Neal.

“Then tell me all about him.” Elaine was implacable. “How did you meet?”

He sighed. At this point, full disclosure was probably the best. “Okay – I’m telling you only because you’ll pry it out of Reese if I don’t.”

Elaine laughed and nodded. “Or that lovely assistant of yours, Diana.”

“She’s not my assistant, she’s a senior associate on her way to making partner.” Peter corrected.

Elaine waved a hand, dismissing the minor detail. “Spill, Peter.”

“Okay, okay. I have a secret vice. I love cupcakes and Neal’s a baker.” By the time he finished – making the tale as romantic as he possibly could, Elaine was smiling, her goodwill mostly restored.

“I want to meet him, this paragon of confection, and I won’t be put off. You’ve been alone far too long, and you’re too good a man for that.”

“Okay …”

“Don’t ‘okay’ me, Peter Burke. There’s the gala at the Met three weeks from tomorrow. I presume that Hughes-Burke has bought a table?”

“Of course we have.” It was a tradition – the firm didn’t attend the most famous of the Met’s social events, the Costume Gala, but they did officially support the museum at other times of the year and the upcoming Multicultural Gala was one of the anchor events of the summer season.

“And you’ll be bringing Neal, right?”

Peter had thought about asking Neal a dozen times, but each time, he found another excuse not to. Now, it looked like he had no choice. “I’ll ask him tomorrow, but if he says no …” He didn’t figure he’d have a problem convincing Neal to come, but he wanted to hedge his bets.

Elaine remained persistent. “You don’t take no for an answer, you hear me?”

He gave in as gracefully as he could. “All right.”

“Now – do you have a picture of him?”

There was no way he was going to avoid this, so Peter fished out his phone. For years, the lock screen on his phone had been the Hughes-Burke logo, but not anymore. He’d replaced the elegant H-B with an image of Neal.

A few weeks after he started seeing Neal, Peter had gone with him to the bakery on a Saturday morning. Even though he told him that he just wanted his cupcakes fresh from the oven, Peter really wanted to watch him work. This was nothing new. He wasn’t a creative man, but he took pleasure in seeing the execution of genius.

And of course, there was the added bonus of spending the hours in Neal’s company.

He watched and what Neal did seemed to be a cross between wizardry and art and chemistry. Peter didn’t mind that Neal ignored him as he worked; he wasn’t there to be entertained. At one point, though, Peter took out his cell phone and snapped a picture, capturing Neal in profile with that curl flopping onto his forehead, a smudge of flour on his cheek. Neal looked up as the phone’s camera gave off it fake shutter-click and Peter took another shot.

This was the one that now adorned his phone’s lock screen. Neal, messy and perfect.

Peter showed the picture to Elaine and she gave an incredulous look. “That’s him?”

“Yeah? Why – is there a problem?” He wondered if she knew Neal.

“Oh, no! He doesn’t look much like a baker, does he?”

“No.” Peter chuckled. “That was just my reaction, too.”

Elaine handed him back his phone. “I can see why you’d want to keep him to yourself.”

“Neal’s – ” He was going to say, “more than just a pretty face,” but got cut off. Arthur came looking for them.

“You’re being mean, sweetness – holding Peter hostage when I’m sure he’s dying to see the new Ellingtons.”

Elaine tucked her arm back in his. “Well, come along. I know that the only reason you’re here is to see Arthur’s latest acquisitions. Our company is just irrelevant.” There was a tiny bite under the gentle sarcasm of her comment.

They all chuckled and Peter hoped that his earlier, carelessly hurtful comment had been forgotten.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“So, you’re defying the edicts of he who shall not be named.”

Moz had stopped by after finishing the Friday night deliveries. He sat back on the couch, enjoying the last of the Malbec Neal had planned to drink with Peter this evening, and looked, for all the world, like a very smug tortoise.

“Yeah. I think it’s time. What can they do to me?”

“I don’t know, Moz. Astronomers, physicists, planetary scientists … they are a nasty and dangerous bunch – worse than Canadians. You might find yourself fitted with cement overshoes and dumped off the coast of Santa Barbara as food for a great white shark.”

“Very funny, _mon frère_.”

Neal leaned forward, all humor gone. “You really want to go back to California?”

“It’s where Sally is.”

Neal had to remind him, “And where Gina’s going.”

Moz gave him a self-satisfied smile. “That’s true.”

Neal raised his own glass in appreciation. “You are a dog, you know that.”

“Maybe. Or I’m just very good at managing … priorities.”

Neal sipped the wine. It tasted a little like nostalgia. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

Moz sighed and blinked. “And I’ll miss you. Elizabeth, too. But you’ve both got other lives now, with other people. I don’t want to hang around like the quirky friend, or worse – unwanted and barely tolerated.”

“You may be quirky, Moz. And you’ll always be my best friend. There’s no one who can ever replace you in my life. There’s no relationship that will ever change that.” Neal got up and went to Moz, planting a kiss on his bald head.

Mozzie glared at him but made no comment about cooties or germs. The glare softened into something like affection. “You can always visit me. That is, if Elizabeth can find another baker with your talents so you can take off for a few days.”

“True, but that’s a baker’s life. I didn’t take vacations when I owned the bakery.” Which had been a source of friction between him and Matthew, who wanted Neal to travel with him at the drop of a hat. “I never really minded before. But now …” Neal wondered if Peter had any interest in going away together. He hoped so. “Maybe I should take on an apprentice?”

“Sounds good to me – a bright young thing fresh out of culinary school, ready and eager to absorb everything you’ve got to teach.”

They chatted for a while about the hypothetical apprentice. Moz raided his wine collection again, this time going for a 2002 Brunello. Neal stopped him before he could open it. “Not that one. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

Moz seemed a touch offended. “Isn’t my departure an occasion worthy enough?”

“Unless you’re leaving tomorrow, it isn’t.” Neal paused and looked at Moz. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?”

“No, no, not for a few weeks. El and I have to find a replacement driver and train him. I’ve got to acquire a suitable residence, plus get some things set up. And by things, I mean several forms of protection. Astronomers …”

Neal stifled a grin. “Are a bloodthirsty lot.”

“Make fun of me all you want, but when the death threats start coming, you’ll be the last to laugh.”

“Okay, Moz – and I’m sorry. Not too many people can be exiled from the most populous state in the union by a bunch of scientists.” He put the Brunello away and pulled out a bottle of ‘98 Bordeaux. Not a terribly storied vintage, but still a worthy one. “Let’s open this.”

Moz actually checked the time. “Damn, I’m late.”

“Late, for what?”

“The Hayden’s having a special late night open sky program.”

“I thought you loathed the very idea of an urban planetarium. With all the light pollution, there’s no way to actually see the night sky.”

Moz looked at him like he was crazy. “Of course I know that, and the Hayden even doesn’t have a telescope. But its digital projector is one of the best in the world, and that’s what I want. I promised Gina I’d show her the position of the constellations in the year 4623 BCE. That was the final clue in A.B. Tattersall’s last book. She’s leaving next week and I won’t see her again until I get to California.”

“Ah.” Neal didn’t want to burst Mozzie’s bubble and tell him that there were programs on the iPad for that. But then, sitting in a dark theater with your girlfriend and pointing out the stars was a hell of a lot more romantic than tapping and pinching on a screen.

Moz departed and it felt like all of the life, all of the energy left his apartment. Neal checked the time and was surprised to see how late it was, almost midnight. Peter had said he’d be over when his dinner party was finished, sometime around ten. Neal wondered whether he’d forgotten or was just having such a good time that he lost track of the hour. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Peter was a busy professional who needed to cultivate clients and Neal understood that he wasn’t going to keep baker’s (or even banker’s) hours.

Still, it felt strange to be alone on a Friday night. He felt a bit lost, a bit forgotten and forlorn. El was busy with Reese, Moz had left for his date, and other than Peter, he really didn’t have anyone who’d be interested in socializing at this hour.

There was a time in his life when he’d just be getting started at quarter to midnight. That was during his high-flying days – when he could burn the candle at both ends. He and Matthew would go clubbing until three in the morning. He wouldn’t bother going home; he’d head over to the bakery and start work. By eight, everything was done and then he’d head back to their apartment. He’d sleep for a few hours, go back to the bakery and start all over again. It seemed like he lived on espresso and wine and the energy of being with someone who was his creative equal.

Except that Matthew had been a self-centered jerk with an ego bigger than Manhattan. Neal had wondered if he hadn’t lost the bakery, if they would have lasted any longer than they did. Not that it mattered. He never loved Matthew. Looking back, he wondered just why he had moved in with him. Well, okay, he didn’t have to wonder too hard. Matthew fucked like a rabbit, and in those days, he’d been more interested in quantity than quality.

Maybe it was maturity; maybe it was losing everything and having to rebuild himself from the ground up that made him appreciate what he had with Peter. His “relationship” with Keller wasn’t even in the same universe as that.

All the uncertainty he felt earlier, the insecurity, the worry that what he felt for Peter wasn’t reciprocated, came flooding back. He sent Peter a text that he should come over when he could but he was going to sleep, and then tried to do just that. An hour later, a thin blade of light cut through the darkness, completely fracturing his broken sleep. He sat up and turned on the night table lamp.

“Sorry I’m so late. Hope you don’t mind…” Peter stood in the doorway, ready to leave, not quite sure if he should stay.

“No – don’t mind. I really wasn’t sleeping anyway. Come to bed.”

Peter striped, dropping his clothes on the floor and climbed into bed next to him. Neal turned off the light. The scent of a tired man enveloped him, and Neal breathed deep. This was what had been missing; this was why he couldn’t sleep.

He rested his head on Peter’s shoulder, finally able to relax, and in an unguarded moment before sleep truly claimed him, Neal heard himself say, “Love you.”

He didn’t hear Peter’s answer. If Peter answered at all.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter woke to the scent of freshly made coffee. The aroma teased him out of a strange and disturbing dream. He was back with the Bureau (or maybe he’d never left) and Neal wasn’t a baker but a world-renown art forger, thief and con man. He’d broken out of jail and Peter was asked to help capture him.

Or recapture him, since he’d been the one to arrest him in the first place. Somehow, it hadn’t taken him much effort to find the man – he was sitting on the floor of an empty apartment, holding an empty bottle of the same ‘82 Bordeaux that they’d consumed their first night together.

In the dream, he’d stood over a forlorn Neal, with his hands on his hips like some avenging angel of justice, but had gently asked “She leave you a message in that?”

Dream-Neal hadn’t even bothered to look up – he was absorbed by the thing and just replied, “The bottle is the message.”

He felt off-kilter, not because he’d been wearing a badge and carrying a gun, not because Neal wasn’t really Neal but some superman version of a con artist. No, what threw him out of whack was his dream-self’s presumption of Neal’s heterosexuality.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Neal put a cup of espresso on the night table and when Peter tried to kiss him, he pulled back and made a face. “Morning breath.”

Peter blinked, his brain still wrapped in the dream.

“You okay?” Neal looked at him intently and Peter found himself drowning in that gaze.

“Yeah. Still half asleep.” He sat up and Neal handed him the coffee. The caffeine gave him a minor jolt. “You showered already?”

“Yeah.”

Peter frowned, disappointed. He liked morning showers with Neal. Especially mornings when they didn’t have to rush off. He pushed back the covers and got out of bed. “Give me a few? I’m still not sure I’m awake yet.”

Neal went back to the kitchen. “Sure – the croissants won’t be ready for a while.” It might have been his own skewed perception, but Neal seemed a little out of sorts. He wasn’t clear-headed enough to address it just yet. Peter put on the robe he’d been keeping here and went to take a shower. The endless hot water finished the job the caffeine started. By the time he’d finished grooming, the last of his distress over that stupid dream had disappeared. He went back into the apartment, ready to confront whatever was bothering Neal.

His partner had finished prepping whatever feast he’d planned for breakfast and was staring out at nothing. Peter just stood there, taking in glory of Neal Caffrey, wearing just an ancient pair of blue cotton sleep pants and a tacky apron that read “Bakers Rise to the Occasion.”

“Been up long?”

“About an hour or so.” Neal bent down to take the croissants out of the oven and Peter admired his blue cotton-covered ass.

Desperately needing to erase the chill, Peter apologized. “I’m sorry I was so late last night. I know I said I’d be over before midnight.”

Neal gave him an odd look. “Wild party?”

“Not in the least. The Kostlers aren’t the party-hardy type.” He paused at Neal’s deliberately bland expression. “Sorry, didn’t catch the sarcasm. I should have sent a text or called when I saw how late it was. Forgive me?”

Neal seemed to debate that very question with himself, but finally smiled. “Of course.” He took the espresso pot off the stove and poured a small cup for both of them. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah – I like them. Elaine and Arthur are good people; you’d like them, too. And you want to hear something funny?”

“Sure. But let’s go out onto the terrace. The morning’s too nice to waste.” He took the croissants and gestured for Peter to bring his cup.

They settled at the small table, which Neal had already set with fresh fruit and a collection of small pots of homemade preserves. Peter fixed a plate for himself, and waited for Neal to do the same.”

“So – funny story?”

“The dinner last night turned out to be something more than a review of the Kostler’s accounts. It turned out to be a dinner party to celebrate some new acquisitions.”

“You run with a dangerous crowd, Peter.” Neal’s sarcasm, this time was gentle and obvious. “Impromptu dinner parties because someone just buys a new piece of art.”

“Yeah – I know. But that’s not what’s funny.”

“No?”

“Arthur just bought the two paintings of Byron’s that June had consigned to Sotheby’s last month.”

“Seriously. Those streetscapes? The ones she hated? The ones she always said reminded her of the crap you’d buy in a ‘Starving Artist’ sale?”

“Yup. Arthur paid about three hundred fifty grand for each one. He considers the acquisitions something of a steal.”

“Did you tell your friends that you know June, that you knew Byron?”

“I may have mentioned it once. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. June didn’t want to sell the paintings privately and I didn’t want to have a conflict of interest.” Peter wondered if that was going to come back and bite him in the ass someday.

“Anyways, like I said – you’d like Arthur and Elaine.”

“Hmmm.” Neal toyed with his croissant, tearing it to crumbs instead of eating it. Peter thought that was sacrilege.

“They’d like to meet you.”

“Huh? You told them about me?” He seemed a little incredulous.

Neal’s reaction was both puzzling and worrisome. “Why wouldn’t I?” Peter ignored the fact that he, himself, had been reluctant to tell Elaine about Neal.

“Dunno – because.” Now Neal sounded like a sulky teenager.

Peter thought he understood. “I’m almost too good at compartmentalizing. My personal life is personal, private. My business life is business. But that really isn’t true. A lot of my clients are people I consider friends. Like June, like Elaine and Arthur. There’s no reason why you should be part of that part of my life.”

“And even though you’ve never hidden the fact that you’re gay – you’ve never flaunted it either?” The truth of Neal’s question cut to the bone.

“Yeah. Sort of.” Peter immediately regretted that qualification. It could lead to so many things he didn’t want to talk about.

“What do you mean, sort of?”

 _Damn_. “Once, a long time ago, I tried to be flamboyant.” That wasn’t a lie. “I had gone to a gay student alliance meeting at Harvard during my freshman year. I’d affected every possible stereotypical behavior. I pranced and lisped for about an hour. After the meeting, a really sweet guy – a junior in the history department – told him me didn’t need to be such a conformist and maybe we could go for a beer? I lost my virginity that night.”

Neal blinked and let out a crack of laugher. “I’d pay money to have seen that.”

“What, me having sex for the first time?”

“No, you putting on the queen. Seems impossible.” Neal sounded like he was trying to dare him to do just that. Peter didn’t rise to the bait, but he was relieved that his distraction worked.

“Anyway – they want to meet you and aren’t going to take no for an answer.”

Neal gave him a considering look. “You could invite them to dinner. I could make something very fancy and impressive.”

“You could, but I thought maybe you’d like to come with me to the gala at the Metropolitan next month. They call it the Multicultural Ball. Hughes-Burke always has a table, and I thought, maybe?”

Neal’s eyes lit up. “Really? You want me to come with you to a ball at the Met?”

Peter couldn’t pretend diffidence in the face of such enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’d really like to take you. Been thinking about asking you …” He trailed off, realizing that he may have just stepped in a pile of shit.

But Neal seemed to understand. “That compartmentalizing, again?”

“Yeah. So, do you want to put on a monkey suit and meet a few of my friends? Maybe hobnob with the beautiful and the famous?”

Neal leaned over the table, and this time gave him a proper good morning kiss. “I’d love to.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal buttoned and unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket. He straightened his cuffs, checked the shine on his shoes, unbuttoned his jacket again.

Yes, yes. He was nervous. Cat in a room full of rocking chairs nervous. He shouldn’t have been, but he was. The Kostlers were just people, and they were Peter’s friends. But this was the first time he was meeting them and he wanted to make a good impression, he wanted them to like him. He waited for Peter to come out of the bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. The tuxedo fit perfectly: a vintage Dior that Byron had worn the night he and June were introduced to President Kennedy. Neal tried to take strength in that. If Byron wore this when he met the President of the United States, Neal could wear it and meet Peter’s clients and friends.

Nothing to be nervous about. Nothing at all.

Neal took a deep breath and tried not to pass out.

“You look fantastic.” Peter came up behind him, wearing only his trousers and socks. His chest was still a little damp and Neal took another deep breath, loving the subtle scent of Peter’s aftershave.

Their eyes met in the mirror. “You look pretty fabulous yourself.” Peter did and Neal wished he was an artist, that he could paint or draw and capture Peter just like this – half naked but fully groomed. A lion ready for the hunt.

Peter must have sensed his desire and he kissed him under his ear, just above the jaw line, right where a lion would bite down on his prey. Neal shivered.

“We don’t have time.”

“They’re your friends, they’d understand if we were a little late.”

Peter laughed, lips still pressed close and Neal loved how the sound rumbled through him. “We would be more than a little late if I did everything I wanted to do to you.” To Neal’s disappointment, Peter stepped back and retrieved his shirt.

Neal watched as Peter dressed, thinking that it was a terrible shame to cover all that beauty. But the white cotton fit perfectly over his broad shoulders and the black satin braces framed them to perfection. He had a brief moment of fantasy – of Peter in a shoulder holster – and made a mental note to ask him if he wore one or carried his gun on his belt.

Not that he had a cop fetish or anything. His father had been a cop – killed in the line of duty when he was five – and some of his earliest memories were of men in dark uniforms whispering to his mother, clapping him on the shoulder and telling him he needed to be the man of the house now.

Neal shook his head, annoyed at the unwelcome intrusion of his past.

“Can you help me?” Peter was struggling with his bowtie.

“Of course.” Neal pushed Peter’s hands away and expertly tied the bit of silk, then put in Peter’s cufflinks and helped him into his jacket.

“You know, if you ever get tired of baking, you could probably find a job as a valet.”

“Very funny.” Neal stepped back and gave Peter the once over and his breath caught at the magnificence before him. “You look like a man made to wear a tuxedo, you know that?”

Peter actually blushed. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I had the tuxedo custom made for me.”

“Remind me to send a box of cupcakes to your tailor in thanks.”

“Very funny, Caffrey.”

“I’m serious. You’re gorgeous.”

Peter ignored the compliment. “You ready?”

“More than you are.” Neal looked down at Peter’s feet. His sock-clad, shoeless feet.

Peter gave him a dirty look, but didn’t say another word as he slipped on the loafers.

Neal opened the door and gestured for Peter to precede him.

Because it was one of those rare summer nights without humidity, they walked the few blocks to where Peter’s friends, the Kostlers, lived.

Neal couldn’t stop fidgeting with his jacket and cuffs while the waited for the elevator.

“Why are you so nervous?”

Neal thought about denying that, for about a second. “I – these are your friends. I guess I don’t want to embarrass you.”

Peter smiled at him and cupped a warm palm against his cheek. “You could never do that. You are wonderful and I’m proud to introduce you to them.”

In a small, dark corner of his heart, Neal had hoped that Peter might have included some declaration of his feelings. And then he chastised himself. The lobby of an apartment building was not the place for that. But his heart was also a bit irrational and the disappointment tasted sour.

“You’ll be fine. Arthur and Elaine are good people, no reason to be nervous.” Peter had said that before, as if it was some magical incantation.

“And yet Elaine wanted to fix you up with their son – the DC powerbroker. I feel like I’ve got a lot to measure up to.” Neal wondered if the elevator was ever going to arrive. Waiting was making him even more nervous.

Peter gave him a wry grin. “She’s got a little bit of the matchmaker in her. Her eldest son is gay, I’m gay. Therefore we ought to be gay together.”

That didn’t mollify Neal at all. “Have you ever met the man?”

“Yeah, a few times. Nice enough, but not my type.”

“And just what is your type, Peter?”

“I’d say, ‘smart, leggy brunets’ but you might think I’m shallow.”

The elevator let off a discreet musical chime, signaling the arrival of a car. A well-dressed couple in their seventies – probably heading for the same event – nodded and smiled as they exited. Peter pressed a button for the 17th floor and Neal pressed Peter for an answer. “Seriously, why wouldn’t you want to date this guy?” Neal figured he wouldn’t get an answer but Peter surprised him.

“Aside from the fact that he lives in Washington and I’m not interested in a long distance relationship, Jason’s pretty much living in the closet. He’s out to his family, but no one he works with knows he’s gay. I don’t do closets. Not anymore.”

Whatever Neal was going to say got cut off when the elevator stopped. He took a deep breath and tried to put the thought of handsome, powerful but closeted men out of his mind. He was the one here with Peter, and that’s what mattered, right?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Even though this was supposed to be a social occasion, Peter still had to work the room and at some point after dinner, he and Neal had gotten separated. He’d caught glimpses of him in the crowd, smiling and beautiful, like he’d been born on the party circuit. Introducing him to Arthur and Elaine had gone like a dream, and they had taken to Neal like he was a long-lost family member. Arthur, being Arthur, was thrilled to learn that Neal was living in the Ellington mansion and wanted to know all about the place. And of course, he had to show off the two paintings he’d bought. Elaine had taken the opportunity to give Peter her own approval.

“I was a little worried, you know.”

“No – I didn’t.” Peter was surprised at Elaine’s comment.

“When you showed me his picture, I thought – how gorgeous, how young. But he’s really not that young.”

“Or that gorgeous?”

Elaine had smacked him lightly on the arm. “He’s absolutely gorgeous, but it’s more than skin deep. And seeing the two of you together – even for just a few moments, I realize that you and Jason would never have worked out.”

Peter nodded. “Your son’s a lovely man, Elaine – but we’d never be right for each other.”

“But Neal is. He’s perfect for you. Smart and funny and down to earth. And I can see how much he cares for you. He loves you, darling.”

Peter wasn’t sure he could believe Elaine’s last words. They’d only been together for a few months and love was such an untrustworthy emotion. Daniel never stopped saying how much he loved Peter, after everything he’d done …

Looking out at crowd of beautiful people, Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Elaine’s words and as much as he wanted to disregard them, he couldn’t help but revel in the hope that maybe it was true. There had been that moment, the night that he had shown up so late at Neal’s, when they were both on the edge of sleep, that he thought he heard Neal tell him that he loved him. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or his imagination.

But Neal never said it again, and Peter eventually dismissed it as a product of his tired mind and too-wishful thinking.

Peter finished the rest of his drink and was about to go look for Neal when Bitsy Cunningham approached. Bitsy had been a fixture on the art world’s social circuit since the mid-1950s, when she made her society debut. Rumor had it that she’d been part of Warhol’s crowd at The Factory, but when asked, Bitsy would simply say she wasn’t the type of girl to kiss and tell.

Not that it made a difference these days, since Bitsy was in her eighties. Still spry and still appreciative of a man’s well-muscled ass, Peter knew better than to turn his back on her. Her fingers pinched like a Doberman’s bite. Despite Bitsy’s penchant for manhandling (hell, he’d swear that she once grabbed his junk at a New Year’s Eve party), she was someone he liked and respected.

“Who’s that luscious piece of man candy over there?” Bitsy waved a hand with a martini glass over to where a crowd of lovely young things were laughing – and at the center of the group was his missing partner. “And what are the odds that he’s single and straight? If he’s not, you just might have a shot.”

Peter grinned wolfishly. “I can tell you, from close, personal experience that he’s definitely not straight and he’s definitely not single.”

She grinned back at him. “Already staked a claim?”

“Don’t need to. He’s my date tonight, and we’ve been together for three months.”

“Good for you!” Bitsy took a sip of her martini and looked at it in disgust. “Damn thing’s watered down.” She gestured for a waiter, who took her glass. “Doctor says I should cut back. I tell him that I’ll stop drinking when they go to bury me. Anyways, what the hell are you doing talking to an old woman when you’ve got a hot date. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Peter kissed her cheek and took her advice.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By the time Peter was able to get to Neal – he had to stop and shake hands with more people than he wanted to – the crowd had shifted again. The collection of beautiful young things had been whittled down to just two. A short, dark-haired man with an aggressively pugnacious attitude and a tall redhead who looked vaguely familiar.

Neal’s expression was deliberately bland, and Peter knew him long enough to realize that something about the situation was making him uncomfortable. Although Peter wasn’t one for public displays of affection – at least not anymore – he stalked over to Neal, draped an arm around him and pressed a kiss on his temple. “Introduce me?”

The look Neal gave him was a cross between pure gratitude and utter desperation.

“Peter, this is an old, _old_ friend of mine, Matthew Keller.”

Peter hid a smile and held out his hand. Matthew Keller was Neal’s ex – the asshole who had kicked Neal out after he’d lost the bakery. Time for a little revenge, maybe. “Ah, I think Neal might have mentioned you? The tailor, right? Dressmaker?”

“No, not quite.” Keller held out a hand and tried to turn it into a contest of machismo, squeezing Peter’s with excessive enthusiasm. Peter tried not to laugh at Keller’s pained expression when he squeezed back, hard.

“No? I’m sure that’s what Neal told me.” He turned to Neal, who was doing his best not to crack a smile.

“Designer – Matthew’s a designer.”

Peter just kept squeezing. “Hmm, interior designer? Because you know I’ve been meaning to have the townhouse redone.”

“Clothing, I’m a fashion designer.” Keller tugged, trying to extricate his hand from Peter’s grip. Peter finally let go.

“Ah. Afraid I don’t know too much about the fashion world. Were you on Project Runway?” This was almost too easy.

Keller turned an interesting shade of red, which clashed with the peach-pink of his date’s dress. “No – I studied at Central Saint Martins in London, and trained with both Vivian Westwood and Alexander McQueen. My collections have been featured in Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily. I’ve shown in Paris and Milan.” The man recited his accomplishments like some laundry list, sounding like he would be more comfortable in the factories and on the loading docks of industrial Brooklyn than the rarified world of high fashion. He also looked like a thug and Peter had to wonder at just what Neal ever saw in the man.

“Hmm. Like I said, I don’t follow fashion. If it’s not art or baseball, I’m not really interested.”

Neal snagged a glass of champagne from a passing server and handed it to Keller with a slight smirk. “Matthew, here. You look like you could use this.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce _me_ , Neal?” The redhead was stunning, if almost impossibly skinny. But she was more than good looks and hair, there seemed to be a spark of intelligence and humor behind those big green eyes.

“Of course. This is my partner, Peter Burke. Peter, Sara Ellis.”

Peter wondered how Neal knew this woman, but didn’t ask. He could find out later. Instead, he took Sara’s hand and kissed it, a deliberately over-the-top gesture that was received with a delighted laugh.

“Have we met?” Peter had to ask. He didn’t think they had, but her face was very familiar.

“No, I don’t believe so.”

Keller stuck his two cents in. “Sara’s a model, you might have seen her on the cover of Vogue, wearing something from my latest collection. She’s become my muse.”

Peter had to admit that was probably it.

But Keller didn’t leave it there. “Or you might have seen picture of her in Neal’s apartment.”

"Huh?” Why would Neal have photographs of this woman in his apartment?

“I guess Neal never told you. He and Supermodel Sara here were banging back in the day.” Sara gave Keller a playful slap, obviously used to his crudity.

Peter looked over at Neal – hoping he’d deny what this little turd just told him. Neal simply stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged, as if to say “so what?”

The bottom dropped out of Peter’s world.

But Neal seemed oblivious to Peter’s distress. He gave Keller a tight smile, kissed his old girlfriend on the cheek and stood there, looking like Peter’s worst nightmare come true. Keller and his muse wandered off and Peter wanted to be sick, or punch Neal or go home and never leave again. How could this have happened to him? How could Neal do this to him?

Finally, Neal seemed to pick up on the fact that something was wrong. “Hey, are you okay?”

He looked at Neal, but he didn’t see the man he’d liked and respected, and yes, the man he thought he loved. Instead, he saw a betrayer. A liar and a cheat.

“No. I need to get out of here.”

“Okay – I’m sorry about that. Keller’s poison and he loves nothing more than to cause trouble.”

Peter felt instant relief. “Ah. So you and this Sara – you weren’t dating?”

And that relief was flushed away by Neal’s next words.

“Yes – we were. For a few months, but it didn’t work out.”

Peter stood there, trying to contain his fury at this – this betrayal. His fists curled into his palm, the edges of his nails cutting into the skin, a mere pinprick of pain against the anguish in his heart.

“We need to go. Now.”

“Okay.” Neal looked puzzled – he didn’t realize what he’d done. “I’ll find Elaine and tell her you’re not feeling well. She’d said something about going back to their place for drinks.”

“Don’t bother.” Peter’s temper was barely under control. He didn’t think he could control himself. “I’ll send her a text.” He turned and stalked out of the room, not waiting to see if Neal followed.

The museum’s galleries and wide hallways were filled with party-goers, and people he knew waved at him, tried to talk with him, but Peter didn’t stop. He practically ran down the Grand Staircase and out the Met’s front doors. Thank god there were taxis lined up, waiting to take the revelers home, or to some other event. He flew down the front steps, desperate to get into a cab, to get away from here. Away from Neal.

“Peter, damn it. Slow down.” Neal was panting, and pulled on his jacket sleeve to stop him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He turn to Neal, vicious in his anger. “You fucked her. You fuck women. You fuck around.”

“What?”

“You’re bisexual, aren’t you?” He didn’t care who overheard him, he didn’t care that he was going to end everything right here on Fifth Avenue under the streetlights and a huge August moon. He didn’t care because his heart was breaking and he didn’t know how to stop the pain except by making Neal bleed as much as he was.

Neal stepped back in the face of Peter’s fury. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Peter.”

“I’m not implying anything. You fucked that woman. You fuck women. You fuck around.” He was repeating himself so maybe Neal would finally get the point.

“I’ve had relationships with women and with men, Peter. I thought you knew that.” Neal sounded so reasonable. Like they were discussing the weather or what to have for lunch.

“No, Neal – I didn’t know that. You never told me you fucked women.” His voice was rising and people were looking at him. He didn’t care.

“Peter – please.” Neal walked towards a waiting taxicab. “Let’s go home and talk about this.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend even a second more in Neal’s presence, but he needed to end this and doing it in such a public space wasn’t right. He got into the taxi and Neal followed, giving the cabbie his address.

The drive took a painfully long time, since all of the Fifth Avenue entrances through Central Park were closed to automobile traffic. Peter didn’t say a word, he tried not to look at Neal, he tried not to think, not to feel, not to be anything more than a man in complete control.

And he was failing miserably.

The taxi pulled up, in front of the Ellington mansion and Neal paid the driver. Peter got out and followed Neal up the front steps. The housekeeper was surprised to see them – it was still early and Neal had told her as they left that they wouldn’t be home until very late. She asked if they wanted anything and Neal gave her a smile and said no, to just lock up and go to bed.

Peter trailed Neal up to the fourth floor apartment, for the very last time. He glanced over at the bed, it was still mussed, his towel draped over the comforter, the pillow still bearing the indents from both their heads. They’d actually napped together that afternoon and Peter tried not to think of all the last times that had happened today.

“Peter? What’s going on?” Neal spoke carefully, as if he finally understood just what a dangerous minefield he was entering.

Perhaps that interminable cab ride did some good. He seemed to find a leash for his temper. “I will not be in a relationship with a bisexual. I will not go through that hell again.” He was proud of how even-tempered he sounded.

“What? You’re ending this? You're breaking up with me?”

“Yes, Neal. We’re done.”

“I don’t understand, Peter. What has my past have to do with our future?” Peter tried to close his ears to the pain, the confusion that laden Neal’s questions.

“I don’t date men who date women. Is that so hard to understand?”

“Why?” Neal stood by the dining table, looking like he was waiting for a blow to fall.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Peter knew he sounded like an asshole.

“Yes, I think you do.” Neal’s tone was steely.

“It’s over – just accept it.” His hand sliced through the air, trying to cut off any further discussion.

“No – I can’t _just accept it_. You owe me an explanation. You don’t just get to walk out of my life like this without telling me why.”

“I don’t date bisexuals. Had I known this about you, I would never have let you into my house; I certainly would never have touched you. And all I can say is thank god we’ve never gone without condoms, because the thought of fucking you bare makes my skin crawl now.”

Peter watched the color rise in Neal’s face, watched his fists tighten and a cold, detached part of him mind wondered if Neal was going to hit him. Maybe he deserved that, but he wasn’t going to give Neal the chance. He turned to leave.

“No – you aren’t going anywhere, you son of a bitch. We’ve been together for three months and I’ve never – _ever_ – given you the slightest reason to distrust me. I've never so much as looked at anyone else, thought about anyone else but you. But you find out that I once dated a woman and you end things? You don’t have that right.”

“You once dated a woman? Come on, she’s a damn supermodel. And she’s not the only woman you’ve been with, right?”

Neal didn’t answer.

The light dawned, a terrible and ugly light. “You’ve slept with Elizabeth – Elizabeth Mitchell, right?”

“El and I are just friends, Peter. We’ve known each other a long time.” Neal answered carefully.

“Just friends, my ass. More like friends with benefits.”

“Call it that if you want, but that side of our friendship was over since before you and I started seeing each other.”

Peter wanted to ask, “Long over?” Except that it was irrelevant. Neal was bisexual, which was all that mattered. He turned to leave again, but Neal's next words stopped him.

“You know, Peter – I’ve always wondered if this was going to happen.”

He stopped. “What?”

“I could never shake the feeling that you would turn on me. There was always this coldness, this uncertainty I’d get from you. Like you were just waiting for something to go wrong.”

He should just keep going, just walk out the door and leave forever, but he couldn’t. The anguish in Neal’s voice kept him anchored here.

“I kept telling myself that I was just being insecure, needy. That I was seeing things that weren’t there. But I wasn’t, was I? You never trusted me, Peter. You never really had any faith in what we had.”

“You lied to me.”

“What? I never – ”

Peter cut him off. “A lie of omission is still a lie. Why didn’t you ever tell me you were bisexual?”

Neal looked like he’d been struck. “You’re a fine one to talk. Every time I tried to talk about the past, you’d brush me off. You never once told me anything about your own history – it was like you didn't even have one. Christ, I once even thought you might have been a virgin. You were a man who had no emotional past and you made it pretty clear you didn’t want to hear about mine, so how the hell was I supposed to tell you? Just drop it into the middle of a conversation? What do you want for dinner and by the way, I’ve dated women a few times.”

Peter didn’t want to concede the point, but Neal was right. He’d made a deliberate effort to avoid talking about the past. He waved a hand at Neal. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re bisexual – ”

“And that means what? That I’m promiscuous? A disease carrier? That I’m fucking every hole I can fit my dick in?”

Neal was so angry, so self-righteous, but all Peter could see was Daniel screwing some bimbo behind the stage in his favorite dance club. And then Daniel lying in a hospital bed, covered in sarcomas and weighing about seventy-five pounds, a tube down his throat and his eyes begging him to end the misery.

A single syllable erupted from his mouth, a shout loud enough to set the windows rattling. “YES!”

“Then this is it. We’re done and there’s nothing more that needs to be said.” Neal walked to the door and opened it. “I – ” He shook his head, cutting himself off. “Go. Just go.”

And Peter did.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Once upon a time, Neal had thought that losing the bakery was the darkest moment in his life. He had no idea how wrong he could be.

He didn’t even try to sleep in his bed – the sheet still bore Peter’s scent. Hell, the whole apartment reeked of Peter. His aftershave, his own personal musk, even the bittersweet stink of his feet – all scents that Neal reveled in and now made him ill. He went out onto the terrace – at least there, the air was fresh, with the ever-present undertone of carbon monoxide. But Peter was everywhere – in his memories. Dinner out here that first time, breakfasts and lunches and other dinners. Dancing together, watching Peter dance with June, or just the three of them talking.

Neal couldn’t take another memory, another moment in this place. He made his way to the large walk-in closet and stripped out of the tuxedo he’d so nervously donned a few short hours ago. He ignored the items of Peter’s wardrobe and put on jeans and a tee shirt. He grabbed his wallet, his keys, his phone and left without any destination in mind.

Mozzie was gone; he’d left for California yesterday. Elizabeth was with Reese and there was no way he’d go and cry on her shoulder. June was with her daughter, in Chicago or Miami or someplace else. Neal didn’t know and didn’t – for the moment – care.

He was alone like he’d never been alone before. No one was there for him, no one to hold him in the night and tell him that this was all a terrible, terrible dream.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Saturday night at the Met gala had been sheer perfection. Of course she’d met Reese’s colleagues and even a few of his clients since they’d started seeing each other. He might have grumbled that he wasn’t really a social animal, and only did this for the good of the firm, but El could see how much he enjoyed this aspect of the business. It wasn’t just schmoozing, it gave him a much more human connection to his clients.

But Saturday night was the first time they’d attended such a major event on the New York social calendar as a couple. She’d been nervous, not because she’d be meeting the rich and the powerful (hell, she’d planned events for a few of them and knew just how neurotic and empty their lives were), but because they were pretty much announcing to the world that they were a couple.

The age difference between them never bothered her, and it had long since stopped bothering Reese. Practically from the beginning they seemed to fit together like an old married couple. Their lives dovetailed perfectly. That night, though – they were exposing their relationship to people who might look at Reese and say he was an old fool or look at her and think she was a gold digger.

Reese understood exactly what was going through her head, and told her that they couldn’t control what other people thought and nothing was going to change the way he felt about her. His words calmed most of her outward jitters but it wasn’t until they were introduced to an octogenarian banker and his twenty-two year old fourth wife did El realize that her May-December relationship with Reese would never raise a single eyebrow in this crowd.

Peter and Neal seemed like they were having a great time too, and there was a look in Neal’s eyes that told her that whatever issues he’d been having with Peter (he hadn’t confided about any trouble, but she knew he wasn’t completely happy) had been resolved.

The only dark cloud was when she caught site of Neal’s ex, Matthew Keller, squiring another one of Neal’s exes, Sara Ellis. She’d liked Sara, she’d loathed Matthew, and she hoped that Neal didn’t run into that son of a bitch.

At some point, Peter and Neal had disappeared, but Elizabeth hadn’t worried. Why should she – they were grown men and if they’d wanted to sneak home for a little tuxedo-inspired nookie, more power to them.

She had figured that Reese would want to stay until the very end of the evening, but the party was still going strong when he asked her if she wanted to head home. El hadn’t minded at all, and to her surprise and delight, at the foot of the staircase in front of the museum was a horse and carriage waiting to take them home.

As Reese helped her into the carriage, El had to say, “I feel a little like Cinderella!”

He replied as he settled down next to her. “But Cinderella only got to ride in style on the way to the ball. Didn’t the carriage turn into a pumpkin on the way home?”

She laughed at the silliness of her own comment, “And it’s well after midnight, besides.”

The carriage ride, something she’d always thought of as a little silly and touristy, turned out to be a near endless moment of magic. Reese had ordered champagne, and even if the vintage was less than stellar and the glasses were plastic, it was still something out of her dreams. The ride through the park, under the full August moon, was pure romance.

As they passed the Belvedere Castle, Reese took her hand and held to his lips. “Elizabeth – it’s been only three months. But these have been the happiest three months of my life and I can’t imagine a future without you in it.”

“Reese – ”

“I look at you and wonder how I’ve managed to be so lucky. I never hope, never dreamed that you’d sit across from me at breakfast, smack my hand away from the sugar bowl and tell me that you love me.”

She laughed, a small and embarrassed chuckle. “Not a terribly romantic declaration.”

“No – it was perfect.”

She had cupped her hand around his cheek – not seeing any of the lines and wrinkles – just the wonder of the love in his eyes.

“Elizabeth – I know we’ve talked about you moving in with me. Or about me moving in with you – but before that decision’s made, perhaps maybe … ”

El held her breath.

“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She had blinked against the sudden rush of tears and wrapped her arms around him. “Of course, yes. Yes!”

Maybe the horse and carriage grew wings and took flight, because suddenly they were in front of Reese’s building and the driver was waiting patiently for them to get down.

Sunday had been spent lazing about, just reveling in their happiness, making plans. Reese wanted to give her the wedding of her dreams, but she could hear the touch of horror when he asked her if she wanted to get married in New York or maybe have a big event somewhere special.

“Hon – I don’t have much family and my circle of friends is small. I’d prefer something private, intimate. I’ve created too many huge society weddings to take pleasure from the crush of people. What do _you_ want?”

Reese assured her – with no small amount of relief – that that was exactly what he wanted, too.

Monday morning, Elizabeth waltzed into the bakery on a cloud of pure joy. Was it possible to be any happier? She wanted to blurt out her news, and conversely, keep it to herself for a little while longer.

The lights were on in the kitchens and she could hear the hum of machinery and smell the always-delicious aroma of cakes baking. Neal was here and already hard at work. She called out, “Morning,” but didn’t wait for him to answer. She snapped on the light in her tiny office and went to make herself a cup of coffee. That was the plan, except that the milk she kept in the small fridge in her office had turned sour. No big deal, there was always fresh milk in the bakery refrigerators.

She took her cup and headed back to the kitchen. “Neal – I hope your weekend was as good as mine …”

Her voice trailed off as she took in the chaos that had transformed the normally spotless facility. The racks were full of cakes and pastries, far more than they needed to fill even a week’s worth of orders. Dirty bowls and pots were crowded into the sinks, flour was on every surface and it looked like a bag of powdered cocoa had exploded over everything. In the middle of this mess, Neal was working frantically, like he was desperately trying to keep up with some insane taskmaster.

She stood in the doorway, watching in surprise as Neal started pouring his signature red velvet batter into a cupcake tin. She’d seen him do this a thousand times. He’d meticulously measure out the right portion and deposit it into each indention in the pan, but not this time. He had turned the mixing bowl directly over the cupcake tin and just let the batter slop out. Then, to her shock, Neal first pitched the bowl across the room, then the cupcake tin. The spilled batter was like drying blood across the walls.

He stood in the middle of the mess, panting, his shoulders slumped. From behind, he looked like a portrait of a man defeated.

“Neal?”

He turned and Elizabeth was horrified by the transformation in Neal. When she'd seen him Saturday night, his face was relaxed, his eyes glowing with happiness. Now, he looked like a man in the throes of profound grief. His cheeks, covered by two days of black stubble, were sunken, his eyes bloodshot, his skin gray.

“What happened to you?”

Neal didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was hoarse, raw, as if he’d been screaming for days. “Peter dumped me.”

El was stunned. “Why?”

“I’m bisexual, and apparently a filthy, disease ridden whore, not fit to be in the same room as the oh-so-pure Peter Burke.”

“What?” This seemed impossible.

Moving like an old man, Neal slowly walked over to one of the work tables and leaned against it, as if he could barely stay upright. “Sara was at the gala on Saturday.”

“I know – I saw her with Matthew, of all people.”

“Yeah – she’s his ‘muse’ now.” Neal waved a hand, dismissing that as irrelevant. “Peter was there and Matthew mentioned that Sara and I dated once and Peter just lost it. He – ” Neal’s breath caught in a sob. “He said that he would never date a bisexual – he’d have never touched me if he knew I’d been with women.”

Of course, Elizabeth couldn’t help but remember what her long-ago co-worker at the Diarmitt had told her about Peter; that his boyfriend was cheating on him, with men and with women and her own decision not to tell Neal when he’d first met Peter. And now was definitely the wrong time to tell Neal that. And besides, no amount of past trauma could excuse what Peter had said to Neal. Elizabeth did the only thing she could think of, she wrapped her arms around Neal and held him tight.

Neal stood there, stiff, unyielding. Elizabeth wondered if Peter’s comments about his sexuality somehow made it impossible to accept comfort from her. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmured, still holding him. He took a deep breath and shuddered, finally letting go. His tears were scalding hot against her cheek and Elizabeth wondered how someone who seemed so wonderful could be so cruel.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Boss?” Diana knocked on Peter’s office door, surprised that it was closed and the privacy coatings built into the glass walls were activated. In the five years she’d been at Hughes-Burke, she’d never seen Peter close himself off like this, even when he had a meeting with a client. Transparency was essential in their field and both Peter and Reese Hughes insisted that everyone practice what they preached.

She knocked again, worried.

Finally, Peter responded. “One moment.” She heard him getting up and the door opened. “What’s up?” His voice was scratchy, and although he was wearing a suit and tie and was properly groomed for a Monday morning, Peter looked – for lack of a better term – disheveled.

“I – umm.” Diana was not one to hem and haw; she prided herself on being as forthright as possible without being rude. “Can I come in?”

Peter stepped back and she entered the office. Everything in it was pin neat, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that there was something terribly wrong.

Peter repeated his earlier question. “What’s the matter, Diana?”

“Saturday night …” She paused.

“What about it?”

“Christie and I left a little early – ”

Peter cut her off. “That’s fine – nothing to apologize about. These affairs can be trying. No one expects you to stay until the bitter end.”

She wondered if she should just take the out Peter handed to her and leave well enough alone. “Actually, that’s not why I stopped by. I wanted to make sure that you’re all right.”

Peter stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She licked her lips, and wondered if she was about to commit career suicide. “Christie and I were on Fifth Avenue, thinking about taking a carriage ride through the park when we …”

Peter’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room felt like it just dropped fifteen degrees.

She plowed forward. “We heard you …” She was about to say “arguing with Neal” but there really was no argument going on. Peter was flinging some rather vile insults at his boyfriend and Neal hadn’t seemed to be saying anything. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.” She stopped; there was nothing more she could think of to say.

“My private life is private for a reason, Ms. Berrigan.” Peter’s tone was colder than the chill in the room.

Diana knew she’d just made a mistake. A big one. She wondered if she could transfer to a different department or if she’d have to leave the firm.

But maybe not. Peter seemed to soften, just a bit. “Diana, I appreciate your concern but everything is fine.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head. “Nothing other than the Pedersons. My contact at the U.S. Attorney’s office says that this time the subpoena won’t be quashed and we’re going to have to produce the records. And you’ll probably need to testify before a Grand Jury.”

“Ah, great.” Peter grimaced. “Thanks for the update.”

Diana opened the door, knowing she was about to step over a very bright line. “Peter – I hope you think of me as a friend. If you ever need to just talk …”

He gave her a small, tight nod. “You are my friend, and well, thanks. Maybe.”

She left Peter’s office, closing the door behind her, hearing the lock slide into place. She had some damage control to do. While she was the only H-B employee to actually hear Peter go off on Neal Caffrey, somehow half the office knew that one of the bosses threw a hissy fit on the front steps of the Metropolitan. The rumors were flying fast and thick. She needed to get with Clinton and figure out the best way to stop the wagging tongues and stop them quickly.

Peter’s business was his own, but he was her friend and she always looked after her friends.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**September**

The first month after he ended things with Neal was pure hell.

It wasn’t the whispers going around the office. Peter knew he had made a very public spectacle of himself and even if Diana had kept her mouth shut (and he was certain that she did), there were always connections and people loved a scandal. He that he didn’t care about that. None of the side-eyeing he got from staff and associates, the well-meaning questions from the other partners, even Reese’s avuncular concern, made a damn bit of difference to him.

It was the loneliness that was killing him. The ache in his body, the need and desire for someone who wasn’t there and who would never be there again. The emptiness in his life, the feeling that nothing mattered, that it was all pointless.

The righteous fury that drove him away from Neal faded into something less definable, less justifiable. And underneath the loneliness, beyond the ache and the sense of futility, was as the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake. One that was going to be impossible to fix and impossible to get passed.

So Peter filled his days with hard work, and his nights, too, staying at the office until after midnight most nights. Because he couldn’t bear to go home to an empty house and deal with what he’d done.

Peter tried to tell himself he was being stupid and sentimental. It wasn’t like Neal had lived there, or that they’d even spent a lot of time together at his house. Most of their time had been spent in his apartment, but still, Peter couldn’t escape the ghosts of his former happiness.

He’d had the couch replaced – the one that they’d first made love on. He replaced his bed, too. And all of the linens. Plus every pot and pan and dish that Neal might have used in the kitchen. Money was an amazing thing. So were Internet shopping sites.

And for all the changes he made, all the effort to erase Neal Caffrey from his life, he was still haunted.

So most of his wardrobe had migrated to the large closet in his office. Back in the early days of the firm, back when he really needed to bust ass and work ungodly hours, he purchased a good quality sofa bed for his office. During tax season, it still saw some use, but not like now. He slept there four, five nights a week. No one knew, at least he didn’t think they did. He went home – no, back to the house – just a few times a week, to pick up the mail and make sure the place hadn’t flooded or burned down.

Good thing he never got that dog.

Part of him – the part that had fallen so deep, so hard for Neal Caffrey – kept insisting that he’d behaved like the worst type of idiot. He had no reason to believe that Neal had ever been unfaithful, no reason to think that he’d been promiscuous. And the fact that he’d had relationships with women in the past didn’t mean that he was looking for that now. No reason at all.

The other part – the younger man who’d been so badly hurt – told him that he did the right thing. Even if Neal had been faithful up until now, that didn’t mean he was going to stay faithful and it was inevitable that he was going to want something that Peter couldn’t provide. No, he was better off ending it. Maybe he could have been nicer, but in the long run, this was for the best.

Except that it wasn’t. He dreamed of holding Neal and waking in his arms every morning. He couldn’t stop dreaming about seeing the sun rise in those beautiful eyes; he couldn’t stop thinking about the wonder and the joy as he held Neal, the perfection of sex, the happiness at the simple pleasure of sharing a life with someone who completed him.

Peter scrubbed at his face and tried to dispel those longings and deny his mistakes. There was no point in dreaming about what he could no longer have.

_Almost fifty years old and you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life._

_And whose fault is that, asshole. You did this to yourself._

A knock on the door interrupted his session in self-hatred. It was Hughes.

“Peter – can we talk?”

“Sure, Reese. What’s up?” He leaned back in his chair and plastered on what he hoped was a reasonably friendly smile.

His business partner and old friend cut right to the chase. “I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Peter. You’re burning the candle at both ends. When was the last time you slept in your own bed?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer, but Hughes held up a hand, forestalling him.

“Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been all but living in the office. You’ve been sleeping here, showering in the health club in the mornings – that’s the third time this week that you’ve worn that damn tie.”

“Sorry – I didn’t realize my sartorial choices were boring you.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Peter. I’m concerned about you.”

“Don’t be, Reese.”

The older man sighed. “That’s like asking the sun not to rise. I’ve seen you go through this before, remember?”

“I’m not drinking, if that’s worrying you.” He wouldn’t start that cycle again.

“The thought had crossed my mind.” There was so much that Reese wasn’t saying.

“I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing – no piece of ass is worth going through that hell.”

“Damn it, Peter! You don’t mean that. Neal was a hell of a lot more to you than that.”

No, he didn’t mean it, not really, but he didn’t retract the statement either.

The two men sat there, the silence bitter. Reese gave him a look, one he couldn’t quite decipher.

Peter decided to break the silence. “Anything else?”

“I don’t suppose you’re busy tomorrow night.”

“No, I’m not.” It should have been his poker night, but Peter had cancelled out of the game, not in the least mood for dealing with the sly ribbing about being a free man again. He could lie, though. Except it wasn’t worth the effort.

“I thought maybe you’d like to have dinner with El and me.”

Peter’s stomach roiled. In theory, he had nothing against Elizabeth Burke, and when his partner had started dating her all those months ago, he’d been delighted. The four of them had socialized a quite a few times and it was such a pleasure to see Reese happy and relaxed and in love.

Now, though – knowing that Neal and Elizabeth had been lovers – he was a little sick at the thought of facing her. Peter wondered if Reese knew about the two of them.

“Peter?”

He couldn’t avoid the woman – Elizabeth – forever. They were bound to cross paths frequently and he was just going to have to cowboy up and get used to the fact that one of Neal’s former lovers was going to be a part of his life. “Sure – tomorrow night sounds good.”

Reese nodded. “Our place.”

“Our?”

The older man gave him a proud smile. “El’s moved in permanently.”

Peter nodded, he supposed this was inevitable.

“Anyway, dinner’s at eight. Nothing fancy – you know me.”

“Yeah.”

Reese stood up, looming over him for a moment and Peter felt – for an instant – like a small, burrowing animal urgently needing to hide from a predator. “And Peter – one more thing.”

“Hmm, yes?”

“Stop living here. This isn’t a hotel. You have a home, that’s where you’re supposed to spend your nights.”

Peter didn’t say anything. If only it was that easy.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Neal, sweetie. Come to dinner – you’ll be among friends. Nothing to worry about.”

The reasonableness in Elizabeth’s voice grated on his nerves. Of course she was right. El was one of his oldest friends – hell, now that Moz was gone – his only friend. And he liked Reese. The man was smart, he had a dry sense of humor and he clearly adored El.

It was just that making the effort to be nice and pleasant, to have an adult conversation about things that really didn’t matter, seemed just too difficult right now. He baked and slept and got up and repeated that pattern, day in and day out, seven days a week, no time off for good behavior.

He baked because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He slept because when he wasn’t baking, he didn’t want to do anything else but sleep.

El had offered to let him stay in her apartment in Fort Greene, so he didn’t have to go back to Manhattan – back to the scene of that disaster. She had moved in with Reese and told him that there was no reason why her place should sit empty until the lease was up. But Neal declined. He wasn’t _really_ a masochist, but he needed to stay in the apartment; he needed to be where he’d been so happy. When he slept, he could dream about Peter, he could pretend that they were still together. It was ridiculous, but even a month after Peter walked out, Neal thought he could still smell him. It was all his imagination, of course. The morning that El had discovered him in the midst of a breakdown in the bakery, she’d taken him back to the apartment, made him sit out on the terrace while she cleaned out every trace of Peter.

She left nothing behind, not even a stray button, to remind him of the man who’d meant everything to him, and who so utterly destroyed him.

“Neal?” Elizabeth leaned against one of the polished steel tables like an immovable fixture. Not coincidentally, it was the one he needed to work at.

He stood there, holding a mixing bowl full of batter. “El? You’re in my way.”

“Give me an answer and I’ll get out of your way.”

Neal sighed. “I really am not in the mood for socializing tonight.”

“No – you’d rather work until you drop and then hole up in your apartment until you come back here for another marathon session. I hate seeing you like this.”

“And dinner with you and Reese is supposed to fix everything?”

“No – of course not. You need – ”

Neal cut her off. “El, don’t tell me what I need.” His voice was sharp, sharper than he intended.

But Elizabeth gave as good as she got. “Someone has to. You seem to enjoy your wallowing way too much.”

Neal pushed past her and set the mixing bowl on the table with extreme care. “I’m not wallowing.”

“No, then what do you call this behavior?”

“Getting on with my life? Doing what I’m good at?”

“You may be doing what you’re good at, but you’re doing it far too much. Neal – I’m worried about you. You’re spiraling into to a dark place that you might never be able to climb out of.”

“Huh? ‘Spiraling into a dark place?’ You’re beginning to sound like Moz.”

She didn’t let up. “Who you haven’t talked to in weeks.”

“The whole time zone thing, you know.” The excuse was weak and he knew that.

“What – three hours? He’s your best friend. He’s worried about you, too. You could answer an email or, god-forbid, send him a text message.”

Neal heard the words and he didn’t want to agree with them. A small, mean and very selfish part of his heart kept thinking that if Moz was so worried, he’d be back here helping him cope instead of enjoying the California sunshine and the unstinting affections of both his wife and his girlfriend.

“So – are you going to come to dinner tonight?” El was persistent.

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I do, right?”

She smiled at him. “Got it in one, ace.”

He sighed, giving in. “Where and what time?”

“Eight o’clock. Reese’s place.” Then El corrected herself, “Our place.”

“You’re making dinner?” Neal was incredulous. Elizabeth, for all that she was involved in a food-oriented business, hated cooking.

She grinned. “Nah – having it catered. Nothing to worry about. Your digestive track’s safe.”

Neal felt some unused muscles in his face stretch and he realized that he was smiling. “I’m bringing dessert, right?”

“You’d better, ace. Now, get back to work.”

Neal obeyed her command, working with a bit more life, a bit enthusiasm than he managed for the past month. In a fit of inspiration, he dug out an old recipe for a _Dobostorte_ , an elaborate seven layer confection with chocolate buttercream filling and a caramel glaze. The cake was finished early and he gave it to El to take home, promising to show up at the appointed time with a few bottles of wine and a better frame of mind.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was filled with misgivings as rang the doorbell at Reese’s – no, wait, Elizabeth and Reese’s – front door. He was genuinely happy for his old friend – he knew damn well how hard it was to find someone. But still, Elizabeth Mitchell was always going to be a tangible reminder of everything he’d lost.

Everything he deliberately destroyed.

He was about to ring again when Reese opened the door. As long as he’d known him – more than twenty years – he couldn’t remember ever seeing the man looking so relaxed, so happy. The smile was almost a touch scary. “Peter, you made it.”

“Yup – I said I’d be here. I didn’t dare back out.”

Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Not if you knew what’s good for you.”

Peter had been in the apartment – a classic six off of Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side – a number of times since his business partner purchased it, the first year after Hughes-Burke had taken off. It had always been tastefully decorated – a showplace to entertain select clients. Looking around the entryway, he noticed a few small changes that warmed up the space without cluttering it: a collection of vintage mercury glass bottles, a vase filled with peacock feathers, a framed map of some unknown country. Probably Elizabeth’s touch.

“Here.” He handed Reese a bottle of wine. “You didn’t tell me what El was cooking, but I figured we couldn’t go wrong with this.” He had pulled out the bottle of Barolo that Neal had given to him on a “just because” occasion.

“Oh, El’s not cooking. We’ve had it catered, but this will go nicely. I’ll open it now and let it breathe.”

Following Reese down the hall into the main living room, Peter steeled himself to say hello Elizabeth.

She was as lovely as ever, and while she greeted him warmly, her reserve was obvious. Peter didn’t blame her, not really. If their positions had been reversed, if she’d dumped Reese and he was asked to entertain _her_ , Peter wondered if he’d manage to be half this civilized.

“A drink?” Reese was standing the bar.

“A beer, if you don’t mind.” He didn’t think he had the head for anything stronger.

He’d just taken his first sip, when the doorbell rang. This time, it was Elizabeth who went to answer the door, but not before exchanging freighted looks with Reese. Peter got a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know who was on the other side of the door.

“Now, Peter…” Reese held up a hand, forestalling any action.

“You didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t.”

Reese didn’t have to say anything, because he could hear Neal’s voice from down the hallway.

“This isn’t what you think.”

“No? Then what is it?”

Elizabeth came back, Neal a few steps behind her. Their eyes met and Neal’s face drained of color, as Peter figured his own did. But then Neal flushed and his eyes blazed with a painful, horrible hope. Peter looked at his beer bottle, unable to keep his eyes on Neal. If he did, he just might break down and beg for forgiveness.

Peter listened to Reese asking Neal what he wanted to drink, and Neal declining. He walked over to the bank of windows and stared out onto the darkening Manhattan sky. It was early September and despite the warmth, the days were growing short. Peter wondered if he could just stand there and pretend for the rest of the evening, just pretend that his life wasn’t a train wreck in slow motion.

But he couldn’t, Neal came over and stood next to him. “I didn’t know that you’d be here.”

Peter found his voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here, either.”

“Do you think that they’re trying to get us to patch things up?”

He could feel Neal’s eyes on him, like a caress, like a brand. “Maybe.”

“Is it possible?” Neal’s question was a barely audible whisper.

 _Yes. Oh, yes._ “No.” Peter closed his eyes against the onslaught of memory.

“Ah.” Neal turned to go, and then paused. “For what it’s worth, Peter, I’m sorry for whatever happened to you, for what made you like this. If I could, I’d rip apart the bastard who ruined you.”

Peter managed a bitter chuff of laughter. “You can’t. He’s dead.”

Neal reached out, his hand hovering over Peter’s, so close that he could feel the other man’s body heat. But Neal thought better of it, his palm closed into a fist and he walked away. Peter just stood there, looking out of the window and seeing nothing but the reflection of a lonely, damaged man.

Elizabeth’s bright voice called out, asking Neal to join her in the kitchen. Peter took a sip of his beer and wondered why the hell he was here.

“I suppose you’re wondering if El and I are trying to engineer your reconciliation.” Reese joined him at the window, echoing his thoughts.

“Yeah, and I wish you hadn’t. There’s no chance of that.”

“Actually, El and I didn’t invite you and Neal over in a misguided attempt to push the two of you back together.”

“Oh?” Peter was skeptical.

“No, we didn’t. You and Neal, whether you're together or apart, are important to the both of us. You’re my friend. Neal is Elizabeth’s friend. Neither of us wants to spend the rest of our lives trying to negotiate our way through whatever problems there are between the two of you.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“So, consider tonight a test run, to see if you and Neal can be in the same room without going for each other’s throats.”

Peter didn’t think that his old friend was being very nice. It had only been a month, after all. “Our relationship wasn’t like that – there was no acrimony…”

Reese threw up a hand, dismissing Peter’s words. “Don’t lie to me. I heard what happened in front of the Metropolitan. At least a half-dozen clients heard you and they couldn’t wait to tell me.”

Peter felt himself flush against the censure in Reese’s tone. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a bold-faced name.”

His tone harsh, Reese agreed. “Yes, it is. You did quite a bit of damage that night.”

Peter wondered what would happen if he put down his bottle and left and never came back.

Reese softened. “The firm’s reputation will survive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too. You’re my friend, Peter. I hate seeing you like this.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

Reese snorted in disbelief.

“Just – just let me be.”

“Okay. But if you need to talk, I’m here. If you need some time, take it.”

That didn’t sound like a bad idea. Maybe go away for a little while. Not too long ago, he’d thought about going back to Europe – taking an extended vacation. With Neal. _Fuck._

Elizabeth and Neal came out of the kitchen and Reese clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s have dinner.”

The meal was decent, and as if they were operating under a flag of truce, the conversation was kept light. When Peter complimented Elizabeth, she confessed that it was catered. She hated to cook and everyone laughed. It seemed so absurd that someone so intimately involved in the food business didn’t actually enjoy preparing food.

“But the dessert isn’t catered. Neal would kill me if I committed such a sin.” Elizabeth stood up. “Reese – come help me.” Her voice brooked no objection and if Peter were in a better mood, he’d make some quip about his partner answering to the crack of a whip.

Reese and Elizabeth retreated into the kitchen and Peter sat there, desperately trying not to look at Neal, and hoping he wasn’t being obvious about it. But he figured he was failing miserably.

In the lull, Neal asked, “Do you know why we’re both here?”

That, at least, he could answer. “They apparently want to make sure we can behave in a civilized fashion if we find ourselves in the same room.”

“Hmmm. Can we?” Neal sounded a touch skeptical.

“I think we’re doing fine.”

“Seems that way.” Peter was actually proud of himself. At least until Neal commented, “Except that you haven’t been able to look at me since I came in.”

The words, so quietly spoken, filled with such pain, set Peter’s temper on edge. “Really? You really want to start something here, now?”

Neal retorted sharply, “You’re looking to start an argument and you _still_ can’t look at me.”

Peter knew he was being goaded. He deserved this and he deserved a hell of a lot worse. He turned and deliberately looked at Neal.

His former lover was still so beautiful he stole Peter’s breath, but now there were lines bracketing his mouth, at the corner of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved too closely and Peter could see threads of gray in the late day beard. He was thinner, too; there were shadows under his eyes, hollows under his cheekbones. He looked hardened, as if all the gentleness, the sweetness that had been so attractive to Peter, had been beaten out of him.

Neal met his eyes, and his lips twitched under Peter’s regard.

Peter looked away.

Elizabeth came out of the kitchen. She was holding an elaborate cake on an equally elaborate tray, and announced, “Dessert, courtesy of Neal.”

Peter hadn’t had the least bit of interest in pastry since that awful, horrible night. Whenever he even thought of cupcakes, he felt slightly ill.

The pop of a cork distracted Peter from his contemplation of the confection. He just noticed that Reese had opened a bottle of Champagne and was pouring generous portions into four crystal flutes.

Peter took the glass that Reese handed to him, then the plate that Elizabeth offered. He didn’t know if he could actually eat any of the cake, but he had to admit that it looked delicious.

“Are we celebrating something?” Neal asked, but he sounded like he already knew the answer to that question.

Peter was startled, a sudden and almost horrible thought occurred to him. He watched as his business partner, his former mentor, his oldest friend, took the hand of the smiling woman standing next to him and raised it to his lips in some inevitable, all too romantic gesture.

“A few weeks ago, on a very beautiful moonlit night, I somehow found the courage to ask this wonderful woman to marry me. I still find myself a little awestruck that she said yes.”

Elizabeth made some equally sappy comment and Peter watched as Neal got up and went over to the nauseatingly happy couple and congratulated them. Sharp musical pings cut through the happy voices as the three of them shared a toast.

Peter felt like the troll under the bridge or maybe the wicked fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. He wanted to be happy for his friend, he really did.

So when Reese turned to him, a look of expectation on his face, Peter curved him mouth into something that might have been a smile, lifted his glass of Champagne, and made a toast. Except the words of goodwill he should have said didn’t come out of his mouth. Instead, he heard himself say, “Reese, do you know that Neal fucked her?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The silence in the room was profound and even Neal, who’d been on the receiving end of Peter’s nasty tongue, was shocked by the cruelty of the words, particularly at such a happy moment.

Elizabeth turned pale, then bright red as she struggled to contain her tears – or maybe, because Neal knew her too well – her anger. He’d never been a man moved to violence, but Neal had the urge to punch Peter, to make him bleed.

Reese, however, employed words more effectively than Neal could ever use his fists. “Peter, I need to remind you that our partnership agreement provides for unilateral dissolution. There are limits to our friendship, and you’ve crossed a line I never expected you’d even approach.”

It was fascinating, in a way, seeing Peter’s eyes darken in shame, watching that strong man collapse in upon himself as if he was being sucked into a vortex. If he was a less forgiving man, Neal might have enjoyed it. But he needed to leave, before he said something he’d never forgive himself for.

Doing his best to ignore Peter, who sat there like a figure turned to stone, Neal kissed Elizabeth’s cheek, wishing her all the happiness in the world. He shook Reese’s hand and found his way out of the apartment and then out of the building. June’s mansion was a dozen blocks north, a ten minute walk home on a cool September evening, but for the first time since Peter walked out on him, Neal found that he didn’t want to go there; he didn’t want to be alone with his broken dreams and his impossible fantasies.

He stood in front of the apartment building, dithering. A part of him wanted to hail a cab and head to the bakery, where he could bury himself in unnecessary work. Another part wanted to just walk aimlessly, letting his feet take him where they would, until exhaustion claimed him – much like he did after Peter all but called him a diseased whore.

But he did neither of those things. There was a small park where Amsterdam Avenue intersected with Broadway. Neal crossed the street and found his way into the brightly lit and well-maintained space and sat down on a bench. He scrubbed at his face, trying to erase the tears that kept welling up. This was all so fucking stupid. Peter didn’t want him, in fact, Peter was an ass. A jerk. A bastard who didn’t seem to care who he hurt. And yet, Neal still loved him.

Someone sat down next to him. It was Reese. “Are you okay, son?”

He shrugged. “I will be.”

“I’m sorry about Peter.”

“Why? It’s not your fault he behaved like a schmuck.”

“No, but it was my suggestion to have both of you over tonight. El and I wanted to share our news, and we thought, maybe …”

“You really were trying to orchestrate a reconciliation?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But I knew it was a long shot. I just didn’t think that Peter would be such a dick.”

Neal let out a watery chuckle. “Yeah. That’s the word for it.”

The two men sat there, the passing traffic an oddly pleasing counterpoint to their silence. Neal, though, started to feel compelled to break that silence. “You know, Elizabeth and I … It’s long over.”

“I know, and it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I don’t have my own sexual history.”

“But it’s a little different to be breaking bread with your fiancée’s former lover.”

“Hmmm. Maybe, maybe not.”

“Ah.”

They sank back into silence, and this time, Neal was content to let it ride. But Reese wasn’t.

“Has Peter told you anything about himself – his past?”

Neal wondered if Reese was about to give him the key to Peter’s behavior. “A little. I know he worked for you in the FBI, and that after you retired his new boss made his life a living hell because he was gay. He told me that he …” Neal paused, trying to find a way to phrase it. “He stopped caring about the job. That he had been drinking too much. I find it hard to believe – Peter is the most disciplined man I’ve ever met.”

A police car sped by, lights blazing, siren blasting.

Reese finally answered. “Peter was one of the most brilliant agents I ever trained. It never mattered to me that he was gay. In a way, I was proud of him, proud that he didn’t hide who he was, and believe me, it was difficult in those days. He took a lot of shit from the other agents, but he made them respect him because he was so good at his job.”

“It must have killed something in him when he left.”

“It did.”

“But that’s not the only thing that happened to him, is it? He was with someone – someone who cheated on him? Someone bisexual?”

Reese sighed. “Yes, I guess it’s not hard to figure that much out.”

“But you’re not going to tell me anything more than that, are you? None of the details?”

“Peter’s my friend, despite his behavior tonight. I can’t break a confidence.”

Neal looked at his hands, the orange glow from the streetlamp made them look old, alien. “I guess it really doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, knowing what damaged Peter isn’t going to change the fact that he wants nothing to do with me.”

“No, I guess not.”

“But understanding might help me hurt a bit less.”

Reese gave him a look. “No, Neal – you need to hear it from Peter. He might not be ready to talk to you now, but maybe someday soon, he will.”

“Live in hope, die in despair.” Even the words tasted bitter as he spoke them.

“You still love him.” That wasn’t a question.

“Yes. I don’t know how to stop loving him. I wish I did, though. I wish I could just stop feeling anything.” Neal heard the whine in his voice and despised himself. “The sad, sick, sorry thing is that I know that if Peter came knocking on my door tonight, after everything he said, if he came and begged my forgiveness, I’d take him back. I’m pretty pathetic, aren’t I? The living embodiment of the weak, needy gay man.”

“No, Neal – you are not that, not at all. You fell in love with someone who hurt you badly. It would be easy to turn that hurt into hate. But maybe you’re better than that. I’d say that Peter doesn’t deserve you, but I’ve known him too long and I know the type of man he really is. He deserves you, but more than that, he needs you and right now he’s too stupid to see beyond his past to believe that.”

Neal tried to take comfort in that. “Thanks, I guess.”

Another police car raced by, followed by an ambulance. Reese commented idly, “Just another night in Manhattan.”

“I guess if you want peace and quiet, this is not the place for it.” Neal stood up, a bit more at peace with himself that he had been. “Thank you. For this, for everything.”

Reese gave him a wry smile. “Go home, get some sleep. Tomorrow might be better.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter sat at Reese and Elizabeth’s dining room table with his head in his hands, hating himself more than he’d ever thought possible. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, _again_.

Elizabeth just stood there and he could almost hear her fury. So far, she hadn’t said a word. So he apologized again.

“Do you mean it?”

Peter lifted his face out of his hands and looked at Elizabeth. “Yes, of course.”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Peter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you apologizing because _you_ feel bad, or because you are actually sorry that you’ve behaved like an ass?”

Peter understood the distinction that Elizabeth was making. “I’m sorry that I ruined your evening, that I spoiled what should have been such a happy moment for you and Reese.”

“That’s a start.”

He blinked. “What do you mean, it’s a start?”

“Well, I have to wonder why you felt compelled to blurt out my sexual history.”

Peter shrugged, but Elizabeth wasn’t giving him any quarter.

“No answer? You really have no idea why you needed to tell Reese that Neal and I had been lovers?” She waited, but Peter couldn’t come up with an answer. “Were you jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous?” The words left Peter’s mouth, but he wondered maybe, if he thought it through, he’d find the reason.

Elizabeth sat down next to him, her expression softening – just a little. “Maybe you’re jealous of Reese’s happiness, when you’re so miserable.”

God, that made so much sense.

“And maybe you’re jealous of what I used to have with Neal.”

Peter closed his eyes tightly, like a small child confronted with a monster. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“But you can’t stop thinking about it, can you.” Elizabeth was relentless. “It haunts you all the time.”

Peter nodded, unwilling to look at her.

“I know about Daniel.” Her voice was filled with an unexpected dose of compassion.

Peter’s eyes opened and he stared at Elizabeth. “How the hell could you know about him?” It had been over fifteen years since he’d discovered the truth about Dan.

“The Diarmitt.”

Peter didn’t make the connection.

“Sebastian Conroy at the Diarmitt. He knew about you and your partner, Daniel. When you came in and started investigating, I thought you were kind of hot. Sebastian was the one who told me you were gay.”

“How would he know that?”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to shrug. “He said he’d seen you and your partner at a few clubs.”

Okay – that made sense. Peter hadn’t particularly enjoyed the club scene, but Dan did, and they’d go dancing on the weekends. He could recall feeling like a clumsy fool on the dance floor and spending most evenings watching Dan strut his stuff. At the time, he hadn’t minded that Dan was dancing with other men, and even on occasion, with women. Peter saw no reason to deprive his partner of something he had enjoyed.

But Elizabeth’s phrasing – that she _knew_ about Daniel – seemed to mean that she knew what he did to Peter. “What else did your friend, Sebastian, tell you?”

Elizabeth’s face was grave, her eyes too filled with pity. “That Daniel had been cheating on you; that he had been screwing around with other men and with women. And that you didn’t know and wouldn’t put up with it once you found out.”

Peter swallowed, but it hurt. This knowledge was so unexpected and so painful. He was humiliated that Dan’s infidelity was so commonly known that perfect strangers felt free to share that information.

“Was your friend one of Dan’s lovers?” Not that it would make any difference.

“I don’t know – I didn’t get the feeling that he was.”

Peter nodded, that was a small relief. “You know what happened, then?”

“No – actually. That’s all I know.”

“Ah. Do you want to know the rest?” He wasn’t sure why he asked Elizabeth that.

“Do you want to tell me?”

“I’m not sure I want to relive that pain again.” Actually, he was certain that he didn’t.

“It seems that you’re reliving it every day.”

“Yeah – it does seem that way, doesn’t it? Peter paused as another thought occurred to him. “I guess you’ve told Neal about Daniel.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, but I have to tell you that I’ve thought about it. All those months ago, when I told him that we’d once met, it didn’t seem relevant. Fifteen years is ancient history.”

“Or so it should be.” He looked down at his hands, for the lack of anything better to do. “But it isn’t. I’m surprised that after I broke up with Neal, you didn’t share what you knew.”

“To what end?”

“To make him feel better? To give him the chance for a little schadenfreude?”

“No – that’s not how I operate. And it wouldn’t have made Neal feel better. He’s not one to take pleasure from someone else’s pain.”

“Neal’s a good man. I never deserved him.”

“Yes.”

Peter sighed. “I can’t go back, and I can’t go forward. I’m stuck.”

“Yes, you are.” Elizabeth was all reasonableness now.

“Thanks for being so agreeable.”

“You’re welcome.” There was just a hint of laughter in her voice. “Seriously, I don’t know if you deserve or don’t deserve someone like Neal in your life. But I know that you don’t deserve to be trapped in this hell you’ve built for yourself.”

“Hell. That’s the word for it. And since you’ve been so generous in dispensing wisdom tonight, any idea how I can get out of it?”

She didn’t answer right away; just looked at him as if she was weighing her words.

“Well?”

“Have you ever thought about therapy?”

Something shifted inside him, like two continental plates bumping up against each other.

“Peter?”

Despite Elizabeth’s gentle prompting, he didn’t answer her.

“It could help, you know. Talking about what happened. Finding a way to deal with it. Because you haven’t, despite how long it’s been.”

She was right. Of course she was right, but he was unwilling to give in. “I don’t think it would do much good. It’s not like I’m in denial, or I blame myself.”

Elizabeth wasn’t giving up on him. “I think you are in denial, and I think you haven’t been able to stop blaming yourself. For everything.”

“It feels like such a cliché. A gay New Yorker in therapy.”

“So, you’d deny yourself the help you need because you don’t want to be perceived as a stereotype? That seems a bit ridiculous.”

“You take no prisoners, Elizabeth Mitchell, do you?”

“No, I guess I don’t. I don’t know why I want to help you. You’ve badly hurt someone I love; you’ve done your best to hurt me. I should kick you out on your ass and let Reese deal with you. But I can’t stand seeing anyone in pain.”

Peter looked at Elizabeth, really looked at her. He’d never seen her as anything less than a highly competent, very attractive woman, but now he could see her emotional intelligence, the strength and determination that made her so successful at life. “Reese is a very lucky man. I envy him.”

She raised an eyebrow at that last statement. Peter had to smile – he’d inadvertently brought the conversation back around to where they’d started. “And I am sorry – for being so petty and jealous.”

Elizabeth leaned close and kissed his cheek. “I understand, and I do forgive you.”

A small knot of pain, something he’d been carrying around for so long he didn’t even realize it was there, loosened. “Thank you, I don’t deserve …”

“Shh.” She put a finger against his lips, silencing him. “No, you do deserve forgiveness, more than anyone.”

Peter felt tears, damning and unmanly, gather in the back of his throat and he ducked his head. “Thank you.” He repeated himself; it was all he could say.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Reese returned to the apartment just as Peter was leaving. He looked at his old friend and was pleased to see he survived the flaying that Elizabeth must have given him.

They stood in the foyer, the moment awkward. But the awkwardness cleared when Peter looked him in the eye and apologized. “I’m sorry – I’ve been an ass and I’m sorry. For everything and especially for tonight.”

Reese had thought he’d had his fill of big emotional moments this evening, after listening to Neal Caffrey pour his heart out. But he found he still had room for Peter. “You apologized to Elizabeth?”

“Yes, and she didn’t make it easy on me.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have.” Reese felt his lips twitch into a smile. Peter looked like a small boy, suitably punished. “But I will.” He shocked both of them by reaching out and hugging Peter. “We’re good.”

Peter pulled back and gave him an abashed smile. “Your bride-to-be is a very wise woman, you know.”

“Oh?” He did, but wondered at what wisdom she’d dispensed.

“She told me – ” Peter paused and Reese could see a light flush of embarrassment color his cheeks. “That I should see someone, get some therapy.”

Reese nodded. “That, I think, is very wise.” He had thought about suggesting that to Peter a number of times over the years, and a few times in the last month, he’d even thought about requiring him to get some help. But threats like that rarely worked, and Peter was stubborn enough to dig in his heels and remain immovable on the subject if his hand was forced.

“I should get going.”

He nodded and opened the door, stepping aside to let the other man depart.

Peter didn’t leave, though. “But before I go, I want to offer you my congratulations. I know you and Elizabeth will be very happy together.” The words were heartfelt, almost shining in their sincerity.

“Thank you, Peter. It means a lot to hear that.” Peter offered his hand, and Reese took it. The handclasp lasted a few moments and Peter let go and left. Reese closed the door behind him. Thank god the evening was over. All he wanted to do was not have to think about Peter Burke or Neal Caffrey.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**October**

“Blake, have you got the last tray of flourless chocolate tortes?” Neal called into the bakery. He was doing the final inventory check for the Hughes-Burke event. It was all hands on deck as they were loading the van to delivery hundreds – if not thousands – of pieces of confection and pastry to the Hudson Hotel in Manhattan.

This was the biggest event to date for Desserts After Dark, and possibly the most important one ever. Technically, Clinton Jones was supposed to be managing the event, Elizabeth had stepped in and given him a hand, smoothing the way with the staff at the Hudson, ensuring that everything was done on time, in the right order. With over two hundred guests to feed, Neal and Blake had been baking non-stop for the last three days.

Blake came out with the missing tray of pastries and Neal slotted it into place. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir!” The young man pulled a checklist out of his back pocket and looked it over. “All of the refrigerated pastries have been loaded. The room temperature ones are wrapped and ready to go.”

“Good work.”

His apprentice flushed at the praise and went back into the bakery to start on the next set of tasks. Neal thanked god and whatever angels that sent Blake their way, because he had no idea how he’d manage without him, now.

A few days after the disastrous dinner party – now a little more than a month ago – Neal sat down with Elizabeth and gave her what he though was going to be terrible news.

_“I got an email from one of my teachers from culinary school today.”_

_Elizabeth looked up from the set of invoices she was reconciling. “Oh?”_

_“He’s opening a small pastry school in London, for ex-pats, mostly. He’s asked me to come and teach for the inaugural semester.”_

_Elizabeth took off the cheaters she finally admitted to needing and gave him a wry smile. “You want to do this?”_

_Neal shrugged, trying to pretend indifference. “Maybe.”_

_“I don’t think there’s any maybe about it. You really want to do it.”_

_“Yeah – I do.”_

_“London is a wonderful city.”_

_He agreed. “I’ve been there a few times and thought it might be nice to live there for a while. And I’ve always enjoyed teaching – so this is a great opportunity.”_

_Elizabeth gave him her patented ‘stop bullshitting me’ look._

_So he confessed, “But the real truth is, I think I need a change of scenery. Just get out of New York. It wouldn’t be permanent – six months at most.”_

_“Okay.” El leaned back in her chair, looking awfully smug._

_“Just like that? I’m leaving you in a bad spot and you’re being so reasonable?”_

_“Neal, I’ve been expecting this for a while now.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Yeah, really. And I’ve been preparing for it.”_

_“Huh?”_

_She handed him a folder and he opened it. It contained over a dozen resumes – all young men and women fresh out of some of New York’s top culinary and pastry arts programs. “Even if you weren’t planning on leaving, we can’t keep operating with you as the sole baker. You’re going to take on an apprentice – or maybe two – and train them.”_

_Neal was reminded of the conversation he had with Mozzie on the eve of his friend’s departure to California. “Maybe just one to start with.”_

_Elizabeth didn’t push on that point, but she had on the timeline. “We’re going to start interviewing this week. The Hughes-Burke event is coming up, and I want someone in place well before that.”_

_Neal’s heart had clenched a little at that single syllable “Burke” but he just nodded. “That’s probably for the best. Break someone in, test their mettle.”_

_He flipped through the resumes, setting aside likely candidates, but without testing their pastry skills, there would be no way to know who was going to measure up._

_“Neal?”_

_“Hmm?” He looked up._

_“When are you planning on leaving?” Finally, there was a touch of panic in El’s voice._

_“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere until January. Do you really think I’d miss your wedding?”_

Blake had been the first candidate they brought in. He didn’t balk at any of the grueling tests they’d devised – a half a day of baking a dozen different recipes, then a full day working side by side with Neal, who was ready to hire him on the spot. Elizabeth insisted that they go through the same process with the four other candidates. There was one which Neal liked enough to consider as a back-up or someone to hire a few months down the line, but as far as he was concerned, there was no one who he felt he could work with as well as Blake.

The past four weeks had proven that his people instincts, at least when they came to baking, were spot on. Blake was creative, but good at following orders. He knew that he was still learning and didn’t resent instruction. He also enjoyed showing initiative and creativity, and the Desserts After Dark menu had been expanded to add a few of his own signature recipes.

Neal figured, after the Hughes-Burke event, he’d give Blake his red velvet recipe and see how he fared with it. Elizabeth hadn’t balked, hadn’t uttered a single word of argument when Neal had taken his signature item – the red velvet cupcake – off the menu. But lately, he’d been wondering if it was time to reintroduce it.

If it was time to start living again.

Maybe the sojourn to London would do the trick. He was honest with Elizabeth when he told her he wasn’t planning on making the move permanent, that all he wanted was a change of scenery for a few months. And yet, there was a part of him that wondered if being in new city, meeting new people, maybe meeting someone who could help him get over Peter …

Neal discarded that thought. He was never going to get over Peter. He might start living again, he might start dating again. He might even meet a man who made his heart sing again, but there’d be no one who would ever replace Peter.

“Sir?” Blake came out of the bakery with yet another tray, this time filled with exquisitely decorated individual raspberry trifles.

Neal had no recollection of making them and asked Blake, “Where did those come from?”

“I made these last night, Chef Neal. I know that they weren’t on the order, but I thought maybe …”

Neal took a look at the tray – there were four dozen small cups – only enough for less than a quarter of the guests. “They look beautiful – we might have a fight on our hands if they’re a hit and we don’t have enough.”

Blake’s face fell and he turned to take them back inside.

“No – no. We’ll serve them.” He opened the van and let his apprentice put the tray inside. “Now – we need to get going. Have you seen Wesley?” The driver who replaced Moz was a good kid, a real Brooklyn hipster, complete with tattoos, scruffy neck beard and a grandpa sweater – just the type who’d have made his old friend crazy

“I think he’s helping Ms. Mitchell with packing up the coffee service. Yvonne and Brittany are already at the Hudson.”

“Ah, okay.” He could have used another set of hands. Times like this, he missed Moz, his cheerful complaints, his non-sequiturs, his ridiculously meaningful quotations.

“Everything’s cleaned up and ready to go. Once Ms. Mitchell and Wesley finish, we’ll get the rest of the pastries loaded into the second van.”

Neal dithered a bit – he should oversee that, but on the other hand, he had a truck full of perishables. “You know what to do?”

“Yes, Chef Neal.”

All of a sudden, Blake’s respectful attitude was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Neal – call me Neal, not Sir, not Chef Neal. Okay?”

“Okay, sir. Sorry – Neal.”

“Good – now remember, load the genoise …”

“I have the order written down, and all of the trays are numbered, _sir_.”

Neal laughed and shooed Blake back into the bakery. It would take at least forty minutes in mid-day traffic to get to the Hudson, another forty minutes to unload everything, and if his calculations were correct, he’d have an hour to get from the Hudson to his apartment, shower and change and get back to oversee the final setup. Technically, that was Elizabeth’s job – but she had her hands full and he wanted to make sure that everything was perfect.

He negotiated his way across the Williamsburg Bridge and thought, who the hell was he kidding? He was hoping to see Peter, masochistic idiot that he was. Not to talk to him because that would probably end in another disaster, but just to see him. Maybe exchange a rueful smile, a shrug, that’s all. A remembrance of what that had and that it was good.

Neal turned on the radio, Wesley had it set to a classics and standards station, but the upbeat jazz was irritating and he randomly pressed one of the preset buttons. A mournful female voice, accompanied by an equally mournful violin was singing words to break Neal’s heart:

_And in the winter, extra blankets for the cold_

_Fix the heater, getting old_

_I am wiser now, I know, but still as big a fool_

_Concerning you_

_I met your friend_

_She's very nice what can I say?_

_It was an accident_

_I never dreamed we'd meet again this way_

_You're looking well_

_I'm not afraid..._

Neal carefully turned the radio off. Silence was better than this.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter shuffled the deck of note cards for the umpteenth time. He’d been through his presentation so often; he could recite it in his sleep. The slides were simple and dynamic. He was taking a page out of the late, great Steve Jobs’ book – no more than five words per slide, no complicated graphics, the images were supposed to reinforce the message, not deliver the message.

He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He and Reese had alternated giving the company presentation and this was his year. Maybe because he finally could admit what an ass he’d made of himself; that too many of his clients knew he had a very brutal, very public meltdown.

There had been casualties on his client list. June was the first of them. She paid him the courtesy of a visit and told him very politely, very coldly, that for the foreseeable future, she’d prefer if someone else handled her accounts. He introduced her to Diana and they seemed to get on like a house on fire. He’d been pleased to see that June had accepted the firm’s invitation to the annual event and she was seated at Diana’s table.

A few other clients had abandoned him, some transferred their business to other partners, and one or two took their accounts to other firms. Arthur and Elaine stuck by him. In fact, Elaine was generous enough to recommend her therapist – after lecturing him for hours about how stupid he’d been.

It had been only a few weeks since he started therapy; individual and group counseling, too.

At first, the group therapy seemed like an episode out of the old _Bob Newhart_ show, listening to other people’s complaints about the petty problems in their lives. He was going to keep his mouth shut and endure the ninety minutes the best he could, but the group leader wasn’t going to let him out so easily.

“Peter, why are you here?”

He just shrugged.

She’d kept at it, trying to engage him. “You’re here voluntarily; you had to have a reason. Don’t you want to share?”

He had thought about answering, _“No, not really”_ , but even though he didn’t want to be there, he didn’t want to get tossed out, either. “I’ve had some relationship problems; I’m trying to figure out what when wrong.” That was, of course, mostly bullshit. He knew what went wrong – he deliberately hurt the man who loved him because he didn’t have any faith in that love. Why he couldn’t say _that_ aloud was probably one of the real reasons why he was here.

As the weeks went by, talking became a little easier. Peter still hadn’t talked about Daniel in group, but he’d been slowly opening up to the past in his private sessions. He wasn’t under any illusions that this was going to be a long, slow and painful process. But even in these few short weeks, he could feel the load he’d been carrying around begin to lighten.

Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

“Hey, boss.” Diana knocked on his door. “You ready? There’s a car waiting for us.”

“Yeah. As ready as I’ll ever be.” He took the garment bag with his dinner suit off the coat rack and shouldered his briefcase. Like a few of the other partners and associates, he’d reserved a hotel room at the Hudson. It just made a lot more sense to do that than go all the way back to Brooklyn, then return to New York. He was nothing, if not practical.

Diana commented. “I watched the run-through your presentation; you’re going to hit it out of the park.”

“It’s not like I have done this before, you know.”

“I know.”

“But I’ve got a lot to overcome this time.”

Diana stuck her hands in her pockets and gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, you do.”

“And that’s why I like you, Ms. Berrigan. You don’t pull your punches.”

“Someone I once worked for taught me not to.”

Since Peter had been her first and only boss, he took that as a compliment.

The Hudson was an oasis of quiet, modernist luxury. Check-in was efficient and he had plenty of time to shower and dress. Too much time, in fact. He tried relaxing in one of the suite’s over-stuffed couches, running through the notes for his presentation yet again, but he couldn’t sit still. He thought about making a cup of coffee, but thought that with his luck; he’d spill it on himself.

Peter knew what was wrong with him – he knew why he got here so early. It was foolish, potentially dangerous, but he wanted to see Neal. He didn’t even want to talk with him. No – that was a lie and he was done with lying to himself. He did want to talk to Neal, he wanted to make things right, to apologize.

And this was the worst possible moment to do that, two hours before a major presentation. Just a few weeks since he started therapy.

No, he wasn’t ready. Not now. Not now.

Even as Peter put on his shoes, tied his tie into the perfect double Windsor, fitted his father’s gold cufflinks into his shirt cuffs and donned the suit jacket, he kept telling himself that he wasn’t the least bit ready to see Neal. The self-admonishment continued as he checked himself in the mirror, as he picked up his key card, put on his wristwatch and left the room.

There was still a half-hour, maybe more, before anyone of the firm’s clients would start arriving, but partners and associates were beginning to show up. Diana, who’d travelled with him to the hotel and had taken her own room, was in the lobby talking with a stunning brunette. It was Christie, her partner. Peter went over to say hello, because he needed something to do other than try and find his way into the ballroom or maybe even the service kitchens and look for Neal.

“Hey there.”

Christie gave him a searching look and Peter was reminded that she had been a front row witness to his meltdown two months ago. “Good to see you, Peter.” At least she didn’t ask how he was doing.

“Good to see you, too.”

They chatted about inconsequentialities for a few minutes before Peter moved on. Reese was here, and Elizabeth was with him. They’d seen each other quite a few times since the dinner party from hell, and each time he saw her, Peter was reminded how lucky his business partner was. Elizabeth seemed to have forgiven him completely, and Peter found her to be a very important part of his life these days.

They didn’t talk about Neal, of course. Nor did Peter talk about Daniel or what went on in therapy. But they managed to find other things, meaningful things, to talk about – what it was like growing up and knowing he was gay, dealing with parents who tolerated him only because he was their only child. He talked about being out in college, about refusing to go into the closet when he graduated from the FBI.

Sometimes Reese was there and he’d nod or offer his own perspective on things. For the first time in so long, Peter found that he had a family – not by blood, but through the strength of shared experience. And he couldn’t help but wonder how his life would have been different if he hadn’t lost track of Elizabeth Mitchell, if they’d become friends all those years ago.

In the same concerned tone as Diana had earlier, Elizabeth asked, “You okay?”

“What, do I have a ‘I am in a difficult place’ sign taped on my back?”

“Hmmm.” El leaned around and checked the back of his jacket. “Nope, but you’ve got a pensive look on your face.”

“Just thinking about things.”

She nodded, understanding far too much. “You didn’t answer my question. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, and you know something, I am. I think I am.”

“But it’s a work in progress, right?”

“Right.”

She kissed his cheek and said something about going to see how Clinton was holding up.

Clients and their spouses continued to arrive and Peter joined Reese on an impromptu receiving line. Of course, no one was crass enough to mention what had happened at the Met gala, but Peter received far too many odd looks. He ignored them, smiled, shook hands and thanked everyone for coming. The ballroom doors opened and the lovely aroma of chocolate wafted out and Peter quickly stepped out of the way to avoid being trampled.

He circulated through the room, getting a little more face time with people. Of course, there were the few who seemed upset that they weren’t having a traditional dinner service, but Clinton – who had done a masterful job with the event as a whole – stepped in and arranged for a small hors d'oeuvres platter to be delivered.

Yes, that man was definitely getting his promotion.

“Peter.” He knew, too well, the cultured tones of the speaker.

“Hello, June.”

She was as beautiful as always and at this moment, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed her. He hoped that someday she’d forgive him.

“It’s good to see you, Peter.” Her smile was a touch bittersweet.

“Yes, it’s good to see you too.” He wished he could think of something less banal to say. “You’ve been well?”

“Yes. I’ve been traveling, taking my granddaughters to see the world.”

“They’re very lucky girls.”

“Hmm, yes – I guess so. But I can’t help but think that it’s a terrible pity that their grandfather isn’t here to see them grow up. The pain from some losses never fade. And that’s not something I have to tell you, is it?”

“No, June. It isn’t.”

She searched his face, her eyes grave. “I wish …”

He reached out and took her hand. “Don’t. You can’t change the past.”

“But you can avoid reliving it.”

“If you’ve learned that lesson, you’ve come a long, long way, Peter.”

“I don’t think the lesson’s complete, not just yet.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Reese signaling to him. “It’s time for the comic relief portion of the evening to start.” He led her over to Diana’s table. “I’m leaving you in very capable hands.”

“Of course you are – and we need to talk. I’ll stop by your office next week?”

Peter nodded, although he was a little worried about what June wanted to discuss.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal returned to the Hudson about ten minutes before the ballroom doors opened and did a quick walk-through to make sure that everything was set up properly. Clinton Jones, the H-B associate who had reached out to Desserts After Dark, was doing his own double-check.

“Looks good?” He stood next to Clinton, who was inspecting the table with the chocolate fountain (Neal thought it an abomination, but it wasn’t his decision to include it).

“It does look good, but I am wondering if I need to taste everything to make sure that looks aren’t deceiving.” Clinton joked. “But don’t worry – I’m not going to mess everything up. Besides, it wouldn’t look good if I passed out from a sugar coma before the night started.”

Neal laughed. “No – that’s not a way to impress the bosses. This was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yup. Want to make my mark and thought that doing something different would work.”

“Given the turnout this year, I think it has.”

“Who’d have thought that we’d get a ninety-five percent acceptance rate on the RSVPs? Aren’t most people on diets?”

Neal didn’t answer that question. He had a feeling that a lot of the buzz for this event was generated by Peter’s meltdown at the Met gala. No one did schadenfreude better than the glittering throngs of New York’s bold-faced names. Whatever reason clients had for accepting the Hughes-Burke invitation, they wouldn’t be talking about Peter’s public display of repugnance after it was over.

“This is going to be a success, right?” Clinton sounded a little nervous. “I mean – it wasn’t a mistake to do all desserts?”

“No, absolutely not. But there’s a backup plan in place, remember?” At the last minute, they arranged for a small amount of savory hors d'oeuvres to be available – just in case. At worse, they’d run out, at best, the hired wait staff would have a lot of gourmet finger food to take home.

“Yeah – yeah. Of course.”

Neal made a few small adjustments to the display of strawberries, and stepped back. He was fiddling because he, too, was getting nervous. He checked the time, it was just shy of eight o’clock. “Time for me to make my exit.”

Clinton looked at him, panic in his eyes. “You’re leaving? Why?”

“Because you have everything under control. I’m just the baker. If something goes wrong – and nothing will – Elizabeth will be here to help you.”

“But she’s …”

“She may be Reese’s fiancée, but for tonight, she’s your event planner, first and foremost.”

Clinton nodded, still nervous, but less panicky. “All right. All right.” He took a deep breath. “It’s now or never.” The man stiffed his back, dropped his shoulders and marched towards the doors, and opened them.

Neal retreated to one of the service entrances and watched the guests flood into the room. He recognized a few people. There was Diana Berrigan, of course. Peter had introduced her to Neal when he’d visited Peter at his office. He’d met her again when she’d paid a call on June at the house. Over Neal’s objections, June, in a fit of loyalty, had asked that her business be transferred to someone else at the firm. He noticed both of the CPAs he’d met at the initial presentation, Kathleen Rice and the hard-to-please diabetic, Helen Anderson, were here, naturally. Even a few of the clients seemed familiar – probably more because they were famous than because Neal actually knew them.

“Excuse me.”

Neal stepped aside and let one of the servers pass. She was carrying a tray of petit fours and he resisted the urge to straighten one of the pieces that had gone askew.

Standing here was a bad idea, and Neal wished for a better vantage point. Elizabeth was in the ballroom, Yvonne and Brittany were coordinating behind the scenes and Blake was directing from the kitchen, so there was really nothing he needed to do, except watch from the sidelines and wait for Peter to come into view.

When he did, the sight of his tall, lean figure brought as much longing as it did pain. But Neal couldn’t look away. His heart hurt a little, watching him from this distance. So close, but so far away.

A server with an empty tray pushed the door opened and Neal momentarily lost sight of Peter. Standing here, in the way, was pointless and Neal strongly considering going home. There was just too much temptation; to watch and wait and hope for a moment alone with Peter. For what, he wasn’t sure. Closure, perhaps? Or maybe another chance to discover that maybe it really wasn’t over? Because no matter how clear Peter had made it the last time they were in the same room, Neal couldn’t give up hope.

He knew that such hope was foolish, but he’d always been something of a fool.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

His presentation – on the “art” of donation – went as well as he’d hoped. If the audience hadn’t been riveted, at least they hadn’t fallen asleep. Or maybe everyone was just too hyped up on sugar, Champagne, and caffeine to doze off.

Reese took the podium for a very brief speech, thanking everyone for attending and wishing them well. After that, it was all smooth sailing. He went from table to table to pose for pictures, glad-handing and talking particulars when necessary.

It was close to midnight when the event drew to a close and the guests began to depart. The party had been a massive success, but Peter couldn’t escape a crushing sense of disappointment. He knew it was irrational, and as he’d told himself earlier, it wouldn’t be good for him either, but he’d really wanted to see Neal.

After the last guests left, Elizabeth and a small army of helpers started to oversee the teardown. In a matter of minutes, dirty linen disappeared into bags, the tables and chair were folded and stacked and rolled off. Leftovers were boxed up, to be sent to the Hughes, Burke offices for the rest of the staff to enjoy. Peter hadn’t been able to eat a thing; the thought of biting into a pastry that Neal made seemed like a curious act of betrayal. Maybe that was something he could talk about in therapy.

Elizabeth came over to him. “What are you still doing here?”

“Dunno – just watching.”

“Why don’t you go home, relax?”

He grimaced, the thought of going home – or even up to his hotel room – held no appeal. But he wasn’t going to tell Elizabeth that. “Maybe I will.”

But she wasn’t fooled. “You were hoping to see Neal, weren’t you?”

He shrugged, like a small child caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “I guess he wasn’t here, tonight.”

“No, he was.” And then El surprised him. “He spent the whole night on the other side of that door, watching.”

Peter turned to where she was pointing; there was a discreet service entrance directly to the left of the podium. He blinked, not knowing what to feel. Neal had been so close, but he hadn’t come to see him. _And why should he? It’s not like you hadn’t made it clear you wanted nothing more to do with him._

Elizabeth surprised him again. “He might still be here. He’s probably overseeing the pack up.”

“El? Why are you telling me this?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Maybe you’re ready to see him.”

“My therapist would probably tell you that this is a huge mistake.” He couldn’t believe he actually said that.

“Maybe. Or maybe you just need a few minutes to make some peace between you.”

Frozen between what he wanted to do and what he should do, Peter didn’t move.

“Go.” Elizabeth actually gave him a shove towards the door.

The world behind the swinging door was completely different from the glamorous hotel ballroom he just left. Despite the late hour, the corridor was filled with staff and Peter felt like an interloper. He had no idea where he was going, and followed a young woman pushing a cart with the espresso machine, hoping her destination was the same as his.

The corridor ended at an open loading dock; the flow of midnight air, chilly this late in October, helped clear the slight fog that had enveloped Peter as he went in search of Neal. The server handed off the cart to a young man who wasn’t Neal, and Peter was intensely disappointed.

But before he could leave, he heard a familiar voice. “I think this is it. Let’s get it on the truck so you can go home, Blake.”

Peter watched as Neal came and helped load the espresso machine onto the all-too-familiar Desserts After Dark truck. He waited as the two men went through a checklist and kept thinking that he really should leave, that this wasn’t a good idea. That this was the opposite of a good idea.

But he couldn’t, even if he said nothing and just watched Neal from the shadows.

Neal clapped the young man on the shoulder and told him to drive carefully. He stood there, back to the loading dock and hands in his pockets, as the van pulled away and disappeared into the never-ending flow of Manhattan traffic.

The seconds ticked away and Peter chastised himself. _Are you going to just stand here all night, or are you going leave without saying anything?_

That’s what he should do. He could even convince himself that it was enough to just see Neal for these few moments; he didn’t need to talk to him. He even started to leave when Neal turned.

“Peter?”

He had to say _something_. So, “Hey there” sufficed.

Neal’s smile was sweet and welcoming and all Peter wanted to do was wrap his arms around the man and tell him how much he’d missed him. He even took a step forward, but Neal – still smiling – held up a hand, and he stopped.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you tonight.”

“Other than watching me through a service door?” At Neal’s quizzical look, Peter explained. “Elizabeth told me that you stood and watched for the whole evening.”

Neal ducked his head, and even in the dim light, Peter could see a touch of embarrassment on his cheeks.

“She also told me where I could find you.”

“She did? I’m surprised.”

“Why? Did she tell you not to talk to me?” Peter was hurt, but he reminded himself that Elizabeth had been Neal’s friend for a long time before they’d met.

“No – she’s sort of avoided talking about you at all.”

“Ah. I suppose I deserved that.”

“But Reese hasn’t.”

That surprised him. “Oh?”

“Nothing to be concerned about. He hasn’t really volunteering anything, but when I’ve asked, he’s said you’re doing better.” Neal tilted his head and Peter felt like he was being examined by a raptor. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I am.” He felt proud saying that.

“Good – that is really good to hear.”

The silence fell between them again. Neal looked like he was about to leave and Peter realized that he couldn’t let this moment pass. “I’m sorry.”

A myriad of emotions crossed Neal’s face. “It’s okay.”

Peter shook his head. “No, it’s not. What I did, what I said to you – that was horrible and inexcusable and _wrong_. The way I treated you was wrong.”

“Peter – ”

He cut Neal off. “Please, let me finish. I know this probably isn’t the right place or the right time, but I need to say this.” Peter licked his lips; they were bone dry from nervousness. “You were right – I was always holding back, I was always waiting for something to go wrong. I looked at you and saw someone young and beautiful and I wondered how the hell you could be interested in me.

“I was so shallow, focused on what you appeared to be, not what you _were_. What you are. And when I met Sara…” Peter swallowed, it was still hard to say the woman’s name. “It was my worst nightmare, come true. I’m sorry – beyond words sorry – and I will regret hurting you for the rest of my life.”

Neal didn’t speak and Peter thought he’d made an ass of himself yet again. But under the ugly fluorescent lighting in the Hudson Hotel’s loading dock, Peter saw the trail of tears burning down Neal’s cheeks. His own, though, were dry. He’d cried too many times these past few months to weep now.

“Peter – I wish, I wish… ”

“I know we can’t go back. I can’t change what happened, but I can try to make the future better. You did nothing wrong and what I accused you of – I know it’s unforgivable.”

“No – not unforgivable. Never that.”

Peter drew in a sharp breath as Neal reached out and touched his cheek. His fingers were hot as brands, gentle as a dove’s wing. “You are too generous.”

Neal’s smile was sad and he pulled his hand away. “The truth is, Peter – I forgave you almost immediately. I think I’ll always forgive you.”

There was another word there, it had been scraped away and painted over, like a palimpsest. Instead of forgiveness, love.

Peter somehow found the courage to speak. “That night, at Reese’s – you asked me if it was possible to mend what I’d broken.”

“You said no.”

Peter whispered, “But I wanted to say yes.”

Neal shook his head, as if he could deny what he was hearing.

“So I guess there’s no point in asking you the same question?”

Neal looked at him, and something in his eyes gave Peter hope and terrified him, too. “Can you tell me the truth? Can you tell me what happened to you that made you react like that?”

Peter wanted to say yes, he wanted to tell Neal the whole sordid story. “I – No, I can’t.” He dropped his head in shame and waited for Neal to walk away.

But Neal didn’t. He touched Peter again, lifting his face up. “When you can, maybe then we can move forward.”

“Maybe?” Peter’s heart sunk at the qualifier.

“Maybe.” Neal’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Leave me at least the illusion of self-preservation.” But his actions belied the caution in his words as he leaned in and brushed his lips against Peter’s.

The kiss was soft and heartbreakingly brief, but Peter made no move to lengthen it. “Neal.” The name was a prayer, a benediction.

“I need your honesty, Peter. When you can face what happened to you, when you can tell me everything, we can have another chance. But not before.”

It hurt, it hurt like hell and maybe it was supposed to. “I understand.” What he didn’t say was that he also understood that Neal wouldn’t wait forever. Why should he?

Someone from the hotel staff must have noticed that the loading dock was still open. “Hey there – is everything done? I need to close this.”

Neal replied, calling out that they were finished. Peter hoped that _they_ were not.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**December**

After a mild autumn, it looked to be a ridiculously cold winter. Thanksgiving Day had been an unseasonable seventy degrees, but by that Sunday, the temperature dropped to 35 and kept dropping. Now, a few days before Christmas, it just might end up being the coldest December in almost twenty years. Peter just hoped that the skies would stay clear and dry. It could snow for days, but only after the New Year, when he’d be out of New York.

London was a much more temperate city.

“Doctor Teller is ready for you, Mr. Burke.”

Peter followed Mandy, the receptionist, into the session room with its comfortable armchairs facing each other. Before he started therapy, he had a preconceived notion that he’d be made to lie back on a couch and tell his therapist all about his terrible childhood. When he’d told the doctor that, she just smiled at him and said that if he be more at ease with the stereotypical set up, something could be arranged.

He wasn’t – preferring the less intimidating armchairs arranged at an angle.

The sessions over the past two months had been productive. His doctor hadn’t been thrilled at he’d deliberately sought out Neal, but she was cautiously encouraged by his apology and his reasons for offering it.

Peter took a seat, feeling relaxed and confident.

“The big day’s coming up. How do you feel?”

“Excited, happy. Nervous.”

“Nervous? Why?”

“Because …”

“Peter – I thought we’d moved past the meaningful pauses.”

He let out a small laugh. “Okay – I’m nervous about seeing Neal.”

“Good.”

“It’s good that I’m nervous?”

“That – and it’s good that you’ve admitted it.”

“I’m ready to talk to him.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” He’d made up his mind not long after that moment in the cold, poorly lit loading dock that he needed to be honest. Not just with Neal, but with himself. “I went to the cemetery.”

Doctor Teller wasn’t at all fazed by the apparent non sequitur. “Good. When?”

“Yesterday – I wasn’t planning on going, but I realized I had to. I just got into my car and went.” They’d talked about this step a few times and Peter had been extremely resistant to the idea.

“How did you feel?”

He thought for a moment, trying organize the catalog of emotions that hit him. “Sad. Still a little angry. But really, mostly just sad. I’d never been there, you know.” Of course she knew. That had been something that came out in one of their earliest sessions. “I think, maybe going gave me some closure.”

“Funerals are for the living, the act of witness gives us closure. When you refused to go to Daniel’s, you denied yourself that comfort, even if not going had seemed like the comfort you needed at that time.”

Peter nodded, overwhelmed by sadness, a sense of futility. “I never denied he was dead, but I guess – ” He took a deep, shuddering breath, “I guess not seeing his grave gave me some illogical, unreasonable hope that it really never happened.”

The therapist gently prodded him. “And now?”

“Now – ” Peter took a deep breath, “Dan’s dead. He’s been dead for fourteen years and nothing will change that. Seeing the dates on his headstone, hell – just seeing how worn the stone was –meant something. Fourteen years.” Peter shook his head in disbelief. “Dan died before 9/11. That seems so – so unreal. I can’t believe how much time has passed.” _How long I’ve been stuck in this rut._

“Before, when I asked you what you felt at seeing Dan’s grave, you said you were a little angry. Who were you angry at?”

Peter knew the tricks Doctor Teller was playing on him, and today, they didn’t bother him. “I was angry at Dan.”

“Why?” The question was gentle, but still challenging.

Peter had an easy answer for that. “He lied to me. He cheated on me. He compromised my health.”

“But those are the old issues, Peter. Old ground. Have you learned anything new?” She was relentless.

Peter didn’t say anything for a minute, but finally admitted to something he’d been struggling against for years. “Okay, okay. I’m still angry that – ” The words clogged in his mouth, strangling him. “I’m angry that he took such stupid fucking – ” He laughed bitterly at the irony of his chosen invective. “Fucking risks. That he left me behind. That I didn’t make things right with him. That I didn’t forgive him.” He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the tears.

Doctor Teller didn’t say anything, but she pushed the ever-present box of tissues towards him.

He blew his nose and caught his breath. It felt like a storm had passed through him.

“I need to tell Neal this, don’t I?”

Of course, the therapist didn’t give him a direct answer. “It will be easier next time.”

“Yeah, I hope.”

“Your friends’ wedding…”

“Jeez, I’m not going to lay this on him then.”

“That’s not what I was going to say, Peter.”

“Ah.”

“I was going to tell you to try and keep it casual. Don’t get worked up and don’t rush things.”

“Not like I did last month?”

“Exactly. That could have been a disaster, you know.”

“Yeah – Neal could have punched me in the face and walked over my doubled up body.”

“In a way, that might have been better.”

“Huh?”

“In the long run, it would have been a disaster if Neal had agreed to take you back – right then and there.”

Peter finally understood. “And I would never have broken out of the cycle if he had.”

She cautioned him. “Peter – you’ve still got a ways to go. I think that even before we started, you were at a point where you were ready to begin healing. This is why you’ve made fantastic progress, but three months of therapy is just the beginning. We agreed, when you started, that therapy was going to be a long-term commitment.”

“I know. I know I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

Doctor Teller wasn’t encouraging. “It might be better to wait.”

“Until I come back from London? That’s six months from now.”

“And you’re worried that Neal might have moved on by then?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Your Neal sounds like he’s got a good head on his shoulders. If things do work out for you before you go, what are you going to do about your trip?”

That was something Peter had considered. “I’d ask him to come with me. Even if it’s just for a little while. I want to give us a chance to get to know each other again, in a less pressured environment.”

“Peter – I’d strongly think about waiting to have this conversation with Neal. Your breakthrough is too recent, too fragile.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Doctor.” A clock softly chimed, signaling the end of their session. “So, this is it for a while. We won’t see each other until June.”

“You can call me if you need to talk. And if you want a referral, I do have some excellent colleagues in London.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Peter turned to leave, but the doctor had one more thing to say. “If it does work out for you and Neal, you both might benefit from a few sessions of couples therapy.”

Peter should his head, amused by her up-selling.

“I’m serious, Peter.”

“I know, and I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll ‘take it under advisement’?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Standing in front of the full length mirror the bedroom in her old apartment, Elizabeth fussed with her hair, wondering if the up-do really worked with the suit. She reached for the pins to take it down, but Neal slapped her hands away.

“It’s perfect.”

“Are you sure?”

“El, I’m positive. Now, finished getting dressed.”

She probably should have felt a little weird about walking around in her slip with Neal in her bedroom, but then, Neal had seen her in a lot less. If Reese wasn’t bothered by his presence, then she wouldn’t be.

The suit was new, the barest blush pink, with an embroidered velvet and satin collar. Her shoes, five-inch pumps, would probably kill her feet before she finished reciting her vows. She’d kept her makeup to a minimum – mostly because her hands were shaking too much. She even had a hard time buttoning the suit jacket.

Neal did it for her. Smoothing and adjusting and making sure she looked perfect.

“You know, you could get a job as a valet, if you ever decide to give up baking.”

The smile he gave her was heartbreaking. “Peter said the same thing to me once.”

At the risk of ruining her makeup, El pressed a kiss against his cheek. “Give it time. Give him time.”

Neal didn’t say anything, but she could tell that Peter wasn’t far from his thoughts these days. She wondered if the two of them would ever find their way back to each other. And then she laughed to herself. Of course they would, if she had anything to say about it.

She rechecked herself in the mirror and had to admit that she’d never looked better. Love, she guessed, did that.

“Just one final touch.” Neal pulled a small bag out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Your ‘something borrowed,’ courtesy of June.”

Elizabeth opened the bag and tipped it over into her palm. She gasped. It was a strand of pearls, just a shade darker than her suit. Neal took them from her and fastened him around her neck.

“Even though you’re not going through all the rigmarole of a full-blown wedding celebration, you’ve got your bases covered.”

“Thank you.” El kissed his other cheek this time. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He touched the tip of her nose. “I can say the same thing.”

Over the last two months, when they hadn’t been talking about her wedding – a very private affair in a judge’s chambers that seemed to need as much planning as a gala society event – they were talking about Neal’s sojourn to London. Not so much the particulars and practicalities, but how much how different their lives would be. Even today, when she was bubbling over with happiness, El was just a little sad, knowing that everything was changing. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You’ll be too busy to think about me. And it’s not like I won’t be back.”

“Nothing will ever be the same.”

“No, but it’s going to be better.” Neal tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his fingers drifting across her cheek. “Come, the car is waiting. Are you ready?” Neal helped her into her coat, then picked up a small bouquet of roses and handed it to her.

“More than ready.” She took his arm and they went forth, as if to battle.

Elizabeth clung to Neal’s hand as the car made its way into Lower Manhattan. They were meeting Reese, and his best man – Peter, of course – at the courthouse. Her husband-to-be had asked her if she’d mind if an old friend who was a Federal judge did the honors. For a brief moment, she’d thought about asking Mozzie, an ordained minister in several “churches” to be the celebrant, but that seemed just a bit much. Reese had no problems with Neal, probably because Neal was so completely and utterly in love with Peter. But Mozzie was different – an unknown quantity to her fiancé – and it just felt too weird having her ex perform her marriage ceremony.

The car came to a stop and the driver opened the passenger door. They had pulled up in front of an old office building, not the Federal courthouse on Centre Street. Confused, Elizabeth asked the driver why they had stopped here. The man simply said that this was the address he’d been given.

Neal let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, there are judges’ chambers here. Believe me – I know that all too well.”

Elizabeth got out of the car and looked around, finally recognizing the street. “I think Mozzie would be quoting Einstein right about now.”

“I can even hear him saying, ‘Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous’.”

A bitter wind nearly yanked the bouquet from Elizabeth’s hand and she let Neal usher her into the building. “What’s the judge’s name?” Neal went to check the building directory.

“Bancroft. Kyle Bancroft – was he the judge who… ?” She was almost afraid to finish that sentence.

Neal shook his head, “No. And thank god, because of all the coincidences that have wrapped around us – you and Peter, Peter and June – that one would be the most inconceivable.”

She had to agree.

“Come on, he’s on the fourth floor.”

The elevator ride was slow and creaky and El didn’t think they’d make it to their destination. She gripped Neal’s hand and something occurred to her – a terrible thought. “You have the ring?”

Neal patted his chest with his free hand and said “Of course.” Then patted it again, extricating the hand she had a death grip on to check the other side. He opened his coat and then his jacket, pulling out a small ring box. “Got it.”

“I’m gonna kill you …”

The elevator came to a halt and the doors clattered open. Peter was pacing back and forth, clearly waiting for them to arrive. His face was wreathed in smiles. “Reese was getting worried, I came out here wait for you. It was either that, or strangle your husband-to-be.”

El smiled and felt a wondrous sense of peace descend over her. Whatever doubts she had – and there were a few – took flight. She loved Reese, she had knew he loved her, and that the coincidences in their lives existed to bring them to this point. The three of them walked down the hall to an office where a security guard was waiting. He opened the door, and there was Reese, despite his tailored suit, looking a little rumpled, a little frazzled, and absolutely the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_“By the power vested in my by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”_

Neal watched, charmed, as Reese bent over, cupped his hand around Elizabeth’s cheek and kissed her.

Neal loved weddings. It was one the reasons he’d hooked up with Elizabeth so many years ago. He loved the hope and the promise, and maybe because his role as a baker was so limited – he didn’t get jaded by the bridezillas and their unreasonable demands. Watching Reese and Elizabeth exchange vows made his heart sing.

It also made him thing of everything he never thought he could have. And that thought alone was startling. It wasn’t like he _couldn’t_ get married before the laws had changed, it was just that when he had been with Kate or with Sara, marriage never seemed part of a future with them. And truthfully, even the idea of getting married to Matthew turned his stomach. As for Gordon, well – they hadn’t gotten to the point where they were even in a real relationship.

But Peter … When they’d been together, Neal had never stopped thinking about them in a forever kind of way. Marriage, though, that seemed like reaching for the moon. Maybe because there was always that incomprehensible distance between them.

Throughout the brief ceremony, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at Peter, who looked incredible, and not just physically. Peter looked good, so much better than he had at Reese and Elizabeth’s that night, even better than he had at the Hudson. The strain that had been etched so deeply into his face was gone. He was relaxed, happy with himself, as if he’d finally found some peace.

And even though their eyes didn’t meet, Neal was certain that Peter was looking at him, too. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, like the gentle brush of fingers along his spine.

Neal snuck another look at Peter and this time, their eyes met. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky; his heart wasn’t shocked by any revelation. No – the feeling now was one of inevitability, like the slow rise of the winter sun.

Of what, however, he wasn’t sure.

“Neal?” Elizabeth caught his wandering attention. “Come, you have to sign the marriage license.”

He went over to the desk, picked up the pen and scrawled “Neal George Caffrey” where the judge told him to. He handed the pen to Peter and their fingers touched. The contact was perfectly ordinary, a too-brief moment of warmth. Peter smiled at him and Neal was again struck by the peace he saw in the other man’s eyes.

Peter signed the license, and so did the judge, who handed it to his secretary to make a copy.

The four of them were like a litter of very well-dressed puppies, giddy with happiness, tumbling over each other as they left the judge’s chambers and when back down the hallway to the ancient, creaking elevator.

The limo was still waiting in front of the building, to take them back to Elizabeth and Reese’s apartment. Neal had refused to let either of them consider a celebratory lunch at a restaurant, and had spent most of yesterday and the morning preparing a meal for his friends. He’d enlisted Blake, was well Yvonne, who’d exploited her contacts on the event planning side of the business, to make sure that everything was ready for them when they got home.

El and Reese were canoodling a little – she was fussing with his coat, he was trying to kiss her, and Neal took the opportunity to send Blake a text, letting him know that they’d be at the apartment soon.

“Are you coming?” Peter was standing next to the waiting limo. Those were the first words that Peter had spoken to him directly, and Neal felt his cheeks go warm at the double-entendre.

“Why don’t we give the newlyweds a little privacy?”

Peter glanced over at Elizabeth and Reese, who stopped kissing long enough to get out of the cold and into the car. His lips twitched. “Yeah – not a bad idea.”

“We can catch a cab back.” Neal held his breath, trying not to think about the last time they shared a taxi.

“That sounds good.” Peter went over to the happy couple and explained what they were doing. El gave Neal a look that seemed to both encourage _and_ warn him. But then she grinned and without any warning, she called out, “Guys, catch,” and tossed her bouquet at them. Peter might have been standing closer and had a longer reach, but Neal was quicker, and frankly, Elizabeth was clearly aiming her toss at him.

With his hands full of blush-pink rosebuds, he couldn’t help but laugh.

Reese and Elizabeth got into the limo; Neal stood shoulder to shoulder with Peter and watched as the car pulled into traffic and disappeared. Peter held out a hand to hail a cab, but Neal stopped him.

“Can I show you something?”

“Sure.” Peter shoved his hand back into his coat pocket; it was still freezing.

They weren’t going far – just to the building next door. It was a small eatery with a plate glass front façade that catered to the local lunch trade, a place not unlike hundreds of others in the city. There was nothing special about it.

Not anymore.

“Neal?” There was a sharp indent between Peter’s eyebrows as his face settled into one of amused puzzlement.

“Of course you wouldn’t recognize it, but this was once the site of – ”

“The Greatest Cake.” Peter finished his sentence.

“Yeah – my bakery. I once had a bakery in Lower Manhattan; I once had a bakery…”

“You still miss it?”

Neal shrugged. “No, not anymore. It comes to a point when you have to let go of the past.” He bit his lip – he hadn’t meant to sound so self-righteous.

But Peter didn’t notice. All he said was, “Yes, you do.”

The wind picked up, reminding them that this was December, courtesy of a not-so-polite, but very persistent Alberta Clipper. Neal held out a hand to flag a taxi. “Let’s see if I still have the magic touch.” Once upon a time, he had an almost inhuman ability to get a cab, and as a bright yellow vehicle cruised to the curb in front of them, he was pleased to see that he hadn’t lost that talent.

Midday traffic on a Friday between Christmas and New Year’s was light, but it still took almost a half-hour to get from Centre Street to the Upper West Side.

“Did you have a good Christmas?” Neal tried for a combination of off-hand politeness and genuine interest.

Peter’s reply seemed to have that same quality. “Yeah, it was nice, low key. Arthur and Elaine invited me to dinner.”

“Good.” Neal was pleased that Peter hadn’t been alone.

“You?”

“Spent most of the day at JFK, of all places?”

“Why?”

“Mozzie decided he’d had enough of California, and as he put it, the not-so-subtle threats from the BHA mafia.”

“Huh? BHA mafia? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them. And do I really want to know how Mozzie got involved in organized crime?”

Neal had to laugh. “Sorry – that’s what Moz calls his former colleagues in astronomy and planetary science. ‘BHA’ is an old nickname for Carl Sagan, Moz’s nemesis.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“It goes back to the early ‘90s when Sagan sued Apple for using his name for a prototype. The company changed the codename to BHA, which stood for [**Butt-Head Astronomer.**](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_Inc._litigation#Libel_dispute_with_Carl_Sagan)”

Peter chuckled. “Ah, but does Mozzie really believe that some mild-mannered scientists are really out to get him?”

“I’m not sure about that. He says that odd things kept happening while he was in San Francisco, and he swears that he was being followed whenever he went into the city. But I just think he got tired and needed some rest.”

“His ladies were wearing him out?”

“I suspect.” Neal didn’t tell him that Moz was back in New York to help El and keep an eye on the bakery operations while he was in London. “I got a call from him on Christmas eve, asking if I’d pick him up at one-thirty. Turns out that his flight was delayed because of fog and I spent four hours in the cell phone lot at JFK waiting for his plane to arrive.”

“Sorry to hear that. It’s not a nice way to spend the holiday.”

“It was all right, I didn’t have any other plans. Besides, Moz brought back a bottle of 2010 Screaming Eagle for me.”

“That’s a very nice present.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I’d actually consider it a gift, considering since he filched the ’82 Chateau Petrus from my collection last year.” Neal wanted to ask Peter if he had plans for New Year’s Eve. It seemed so easy, so right to take that final step. But was it really fair at this point? To start something that he wasn’t going to be around to follow through on? He was leaving for London in ten days.

And then there was the whole issue of Peter’s past – the past he’d refused to talk about. Neal had surprised himself when he’d made that a condition of any potential reconciliation.

The cab pulled up in front of Reese and Elizabeth’s building and whatever decision Neal was would make was going to be delayed, at least until after lunch. He paid the cabbie and retrieved Elizabeth’s bouquet.

Peter got out of the cab and held out a hand in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. Neal took it without a second thought.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It all felt so normal this time around, to be having a meal with Elizabeth and Reese and Neal. So normal that Peter could almost fool himself into believing that the last four months hadn’t really happened; that he hadn’t wrecked everything.

But it did, and no matter how much he wished he could, he couldn’t turn back the clock, he couldn’t undo his mistakes.

 _But isn’t that for the best?_ Peter could actually hear his therapist’s voice in that question. And she was right, undoing the recent past meant undoing everything he had accomplished to overcome what had happened. No, the better path was to move forward, to accept the mistakes and try not to repeat them.

The pop of a champagne cork distracted him from his musings. “You will have a piece of my wedding cake?” Elizabeth was brooking no disagreement.

Neal interrupted, “Can’t we have the chance to admire it before you cut it?”

Of course Neal would have made the wedding cake.

“Oh, all right.” El gave in with a mock huff. “You always need to show off.”

Neal kissed her cheek. “Only because I saved my best work for you.” He disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a small, exquisitely decorated cake covered in tiny pink icing roses and piped lines resembling silver lace.

Even Reese was impressed. “It’s gorgeous, Neal. It’s too pretty to eat.”

Neal pretended to be horrified, but Peter could see how pleased he was by the compliment.

He looked at the cake and then over to the sideboard, where the bouquet of roses trimmed with silver lace rested. “Huh, it looks like Elizabeth’s bouquet.” Elizabeth glared at him, and he felt like an idiot. He glanced over at Neal, who gave him a shy, but approving smile.

“Of course it does.” He laughed at his own stupidity, and they all joined in.

“Does someone want to take a picture before I kill it?” Elizabeth held a silver cake knife as if she was the villain in a slasher flick, making stabbing motions at the cake.

They all reached for their smartphones. Peter, who had rarely used the camera on his iPhone, had a moment of inspiration and turned on the video camera feature to capture all of these moments of joy: Elizabeth and Reese both holding the knife – this time in a civilized fashion – and slicing into the cake; the first slice falling onto a plate; Reese taking a finger full of frosting and painting in on his bride’s nose, then licking it off. He kept recording as that lick turned into a very passionate kiss and Elizabeth clung to her husband. Peter even captured the moment when Reese broke off the kiss and growled, “Burke, Caffrey – get out,” before pulling Elizabeth towards the bedroom.

Peter turned the camera on Neal, expecting to see laughter, a teasing look in the man’s eyes, but he was surprised by what he saw. It wasn’t jealousy (though he might have once believed it was), but envy for their happiness. Peter understood that.

He turned the camera off and pocketed his phone. “I guess we should leave.”

Neal nodded, but looked at the just-cut slice of cake. “Hmm – should do something about this.”

“A good pastry is a terrible thing to waste?”

He looked up and grinned. “Yeah, but you know what – it’s theirs, not mine. And if they’d rather – ” Neal’s voice dropped to a stage whisper, “Have sex than eat it, they’ll just have to live with stale wedding cake as the price for their orgasmic bliss.”

Peter retrieved their coats and they left the apartment.

It was a little after four o’clock and the sun had set dropped behind the canyons of New York, taking whatever warmth it managed to generate. Outside, on the street, the air was breath-stealing cold, but Peter stood there, wishing like hell he could just follow Neal back to his apartment, share a bottle of wine and pour out his heart.

“Peter?”

“Neal?”

“I’m going to – ” Neal pointed uptown. “Head back to my place – maybe you’d like to come, join me for a bit?”

He couldn’t believe that Neal was giving him the opening he needed. “Yeah – I’d like to.”

They walked quickly, their long strides quickly eating up the dozen or so blocks to the Ellington Mansion on Riverside Drive. Even still, Peter was frozen by the time he climbed up the still-familiar front steps.

Magda, June’s housekeeper, greeted him with a smile and took their coats. Peter followed Neal up the three flights, thinking about the miracle of forgiveness that brought him back here.

Not much had changed in Neal’s apartment since that last, terrible evening. It was warm and welcoming and even now felt more like home than his house in Cobble Hill. Neal set a pot of water on the stove.

Waiting for the water to come to a boil, Neal moved to the hearth, standing there with his hands in his pockets.

Peter commented, “A fire would be nice on a night like tonight. Does the fireplace work?”

Neal shook his head. “It might, but June warned me not to use it. Apparently Byron had a bad habit of burning unsuccessful canvasses in it. Not a good idea when you use oil paints and linseed oil. She said that the residue in the flue might kill me.”

Peter realized that Neal was nervous, and talking about nothing to cover it. At least the tea kettle began to whistle.

Neal asked, “Want a cup?”

“Sure.” He really wasn’t a tea drinker, but it was something to do, something to cover the aching distance that had sprung up between them.

Neal fussed with the tea, heating the pot, measuring the loose leaf into a tea ball, pouring the hot water as if his life depended on filling it to just the right point. Milk, sugar and lemon, plus two ancient chipped mugs made their way to the dining table, together with an equally ancient teapot.

Peter almost made a comment about the lack of cookies to go with the tea, but a plate of gingersnaps, undoubtedly made by Neal, found their way next to the pot.

“Shall I?” Neal filled both mugs and pushed one towards him. Peter took his time with the sugar and the lemon, looking on in vague distaste as Neal splashed a little cream into his. He supposed that he’d get used to seeing people put milk into their tea when he was living in London.

“Well?”

“Tea’s good, thanks.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How are you doing, really?”

Peter smiled, his eyes not leaving Neal’s. “I’m doing all right – really well.”

“I can tell – you look fantastic.”

“Thanks.” Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the deep end. “I’ve been seeing a therapist.”

Neal’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“You seem surprised, why?”

“I don’t know – you just don’t seem like the type who’d be able to open up like that.”

He nodded, agreeing with Neal. “I wasn’t – and honestly, it’s been hard as hell.”

“But it’s working?”

“Yeah – it is. I feel like a cliché sometimes…” He trailed off; this wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go. “When I saw you in October, you said something. Something that gave me hope.”

“Oh?”

“You told me that until I could tell you about what happened, we couldn’t move forward. We didn’t have a chance for a future.”

“Ah – yeah.” Neal frowned. “I’m sorry about that – it was pretty cruel of me to put that on you. I can tell it’s terribly painful, and to make you revisit it is wrong.”

“No, it’s not wrong. It’s something I’ve needed to do for a very long time. I’ve needed to face the past, not avoid it, not hide from it, not pretend it didn’t happen.”

“And therapy’s helped you get there?”

“Yeah, unbelievably, it has.” Peter took a sip of his tea and tried not to make a face. It was awful. “If you want to hear, I’m ready to tell you.”

Neal’s eyes went wide, a warm pale blue like the early morning sky. “I don’t want you to do this if it’s going to hurt you, Peter.”

“It hurts, regardless. And I need to tell you this.” Peter backtracked, realizing that he was putting the burden on Neal. “If you do want to hear, I need you to listen. It’s not a pretty story, but you deserve the whole truth.”

Neal got up, took the mugs of tea away and replaced them with a pair of tumblers and a bottle of single malt Scotch, pouring doubles for both of them. “I think we need something a little stronger.”

Peter took a sip, grateful for the bite and the burn of the smoky liquor, and began – not from the end, where things had gone so terribly wrong, but from the beginning. He wanted Neal to understand everything. “It wasn’t easy being gay in the early 1990s, and it wasn’t easy being gay and an FBI agent. Like I told you, I’d been lucky that Reese was my supervising agent and he didn’t care about which sex I preferred to date, but I still had to prove myself to the other agents in the division. Hell, it seemed like I had to prove myself to the entire Bureau over and over again. The first year after I finished my probationary term, I got all the shit assignments. I was tagged for a lot of late shifts alone in the surveillance van.

“Anyway, one night, I was on duty by myself and I picked up some stray signal. It was coming from an NYPD radio. It sounded like a cop was in trouble, serious trouble, so I left the van and tried to help.”

“Without backup?”

“Yeah – stupid, I know – going out without backup, without calling it in. I was all by myself doing the delta shift, supposed to be listening in on a bunch of stockbrokers working a boiler room scam, and instead I was running down Bleeker Street, gun in one hand, scanner in the other, trying to figure out where the signal’s coming from.

“Eventually, I found the cop and he was getting beat up pretty badly – two guys with baseball bats. I did the whole, ‘FBI – FREEZE’ thing and the sons of bitches actually shot at me. They missed, I shot back, I missed and the next thing I knew, there was a half-dozen police cars streaming in. It seemed that I’d stepped into the middle of an active investigation – ”

“Really? One where a cop was getting the shit kicked out of him?”

“Actually, it was a lot more complicated than that. The cop who was getting the shit kicked out of him was an IAB officer investigating a squad of dirty narcotics detectives. The other cops were waiting for the guy to go terminal before rolling in.”

“So – you got to be a big hero?”

“In a way. The cop who was beaten up survived and identified his attackers as other cops – the ones he’d been investigating. The details were never released, but the bastards were arrested and convicted.” Peter took another sip of the whiskey. “I suppose you’re wondering what this has to do with anything.”

Neal nodded. “I figure you’ll get to it, eventually.”

“Anyway – I went to check on the cop.”

“The one you rescued.”

Peter nodded. “I’d gone through about six hours of interrogation by the NYPD – but they wouldn’t tell me if the guy was alive or dead. I pulled a few strings, flashed my badge a couple of times and finally found him under guard at Beth Israel Hospital.” Peter had to laugh at the memory. “There’s the guy, he’s got a cast on his arm, his head’s wrapped in bandages, his face is this mass of bruises, and he’s flirting with the male nurse.

“The cop sees me and says to the nurse, ‘You can go now, sweet cheeks. Maybe Mr. Big Bad FBI Agent will give me a sponge bath.’ He was being outrageously flamboyant – like he was trying to shock me.”

Peter couldn’t help but smile at the memory. He hadn’t shared these with his therapist and this was probably the first time he thought about those early days with Dan in fifteen years. “I wasn’t shocked.”

“This was the guy?”

“Yeah. The guy – Dan, Daniel Shattuck. He was a lieutenant in the NYPD.” Peter felt the decades drop away. “The youngest lieutenant in the whole damn department.”

“And he was out?” Neal seemed incredulous; Peter didn’t blame him.

“Dan was ambitious and he figured that he could claw his way up in a detective squad, but he’d have to stay deep in the closet, or he could join IAB and get to the top that much faster. If he was going to be hated for being on the ‘Rat Squad’, he said might as well be out and proud and be hated for that, too.”

“Makes sense, in a strange sort of way.” Neal then said, in a quiet voice, “You sound like you admired him.”

“I did, I guess. I was out, but I was a conformist. Regulation haircut, regulation suit and tie and shoes, regulation behavior. The FBI didn’t have room for eccentrics, despite what was on the X-Files. I never hid that I was gay, but I didn’t – I couldn’t – wear it like Dan did.” Peter paused, still a little caught up in the past.

“So – what happened? He asked you out while he was still in his hospital bed?” Neal’s tone was bland, almost diffident.

“No, actually. I spent about five minutes with him, told him I hoped he had a quick recovery and left. I admired his bravery, and sort of felt a little ashamed of myself, for my need to conform and pretty much tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. About a week later, I got a huge bouquet of flowers at the office.

“The guys ribbed me a little, but it wasn’t nasty. Then the box of candy came – two pounds of Godiva. I guess it helped that I shared it. Another bouquet of flowers. A basket of muffins, another one of cookies. Dan signed all the cards, ‘To the bravest FBI agent in the world’. It was like he was wooing me.”

Peter took another sip of the Scotch and realized his glass was empty. Before he could reach for the bottle, Neal refilled both of their glasses. He was probably going to get drunk tonight. Very drunk.

“About two weeks after that, I was in the office, at my desk, concentrating on some surveillance transcripts for the same damn boiler room case I’d been working on that night, and this guy showed up. He was just standing there, clearing his throat, trying to get my attention. There was cast on his arm and he had pair of spectacular shiners. I figured he must have flashed his badge to get in, because the FBI has pretty strict rules about letting civilians in unescorted.

“So I just sat there, my jaw practically on my chest and tried not to seem like an idiot. All I could think was to ask him why was he there.”

“I’d have thought the answer was obvious.” Neal’s tone was dry.

“Of course it was – like I said, I was trying not to seem like an idiot, but it was pretty clear I was failing miserably. Dan said he wanted to know if I liked the flowers and the candy and the muffins. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been the right thing. Next thing I know, he’s asking me out for dinner. Right there, in front of everyone. And you know what? No one was paying any attention.”

“You accepted, of course.”

“I did. Dan played it smart – he was pretty low key. He took me to some burger joint on Union Square, and the place was filled with college kids. As unromantic as you could imagine. After we finished dinner, he made a joke about inviting me back to his place, but that if we tried to do anything, he’d probably render me unconscious with his cast. Then he said I was probably the type of guy who needed at least three dates before putting out.”

Neal laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Peter asked, “What’s the matter.”

“Sorry – just thinking about how easy I was.” Neal lifted his glass and drained it in a single swallow.

“You weren’t easy, Neal. You were perfect.” Peter didn’t understand how the mood had changed. But when Neal reached for the whiskey bottle, he intercepted him. “You’ve had enough for now.”

Neal didn’t fight him, but the look on his face troubled Peter. “I don’t have to go on, you know, not if this is making you upset.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal closed his eyes briefly and tried to not to feel so confused, so close to the edge of anger. But it was hard to listen to Peter rhapsodize about another man, someone who had hurt him. “No, please – you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

The smile Peter gave him was sweet, grateful and Neal felt like a thousand kinds of shitheel.

“There was something easy between us, it seemed like Dan was the other half of my soul. I know that sounds corny and trite, but you have to realize, I’d never really had a relationship with a guy like that. I’d dated – New York was full of gay men – but a cop? Someone who understood what the job really meant? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a fetish object? I can’t tell you how many guys I’d dated that were turned on when they found out I carried a gun. It was worse when I had a mustache – you’d think I was something out of a Tom of Finland illustration.”

Neal had never given that a thought, but of course Peter would have attracted a certain type of guy. He didn’t say anything, just nodded in understanding.

Peter went for the whiskey glass, but maybe he remembered that he’d cut Neal off and he reached for a gingersnap instead. Neal winced, slightly revolted by the combination of spiced cookie and single-malt Scotch; but Peter didn’t seem to mind and ate it in two bites.

“I think we dated for three weeks before Dan got his cast off, and that night – ” Peter stopped himself. “I really don’t think you want to hear about our sex lives.”

Neal wanted to say no, but he just shrugged. “If you need to tell me, I’m here to listen.”

“Okay – thanks. I’ll get to the point soon enough.” Peter took a deep breath, as if he was bracing himself. “Our sex life was good – better than good. It was nice to have a steady partner. We always played it safe, you know – never went without a condom, even after Dan …”

Peter cut himself off, his face took on a strained look.

“After Dan what?” Neal prodded.

“After he asked me if we were a couple, if we were going to be exclusive. I’d forgotten that. I’d forgotten that he asked _me_ for a commitment. And I gave it to him – I told him that there was no one else I wanted to be with, and he said the same thing, that I was everything he ever wanted in a man. That it was like I was made just for him.”

“Did you move in together?”

“No – we’d talked about it, but we both decided that we needed a little space. That’s not to say that I didn’t spend most of my nights with Dan. We worked the same shift, usually – except when we didn’t. Law enforcement isn’t a nine-to-five career.”

Neal had to ask, “How long were you together?”

“About four years.” Peter stood up and paced the length of the room. “No. That’s not accurate. We were together for three years, six months, and fifteen days – give or take a few hours. It’s etched in my brain.” He went to the French doors that led out to the balcony, resting his hands on the icy glass.

Neal watched and ached. He’d been wrong, thinking that Peter was still in love with this ghost. Peter seemed frozen now, lost and alone. Neal went to him, bringing him back to the table, taking his cold hands and warming them up between his own. “Can you go on?”

The look of gratitude in Peter’s eyes was a dagger to his heart. “Yeah, I think so.” Peter freed himself from Neal’s grasp and scrubbed at his face. “This is hard, it’s a lot harder that the first time.”

“First time?”

“Yeah, when I told my therapist. She said it would be easier, but it’s not. I think that’s because you matter so much more me.”

Neal wanted to weep at those words. “We can take a break; we don’t have to do this now.” He wanted Peter to take the out he was giving him; hating the pain on that beloved face.

“No – I think if I don’t finish this now, I’ll never be able to. I need to move forward, not stay caught in the past. And if I don’t tell you, that’s what’s going to happen.”

Neal retrieved the whiskey bottle. They both needed it.

“On paper, we were far from a perfect match. Dan loved being a little outrageous. He wasn’t campy, but he just was a hell of a lot more at ease in that world that I was. I’d never felt the need to be part of the gay culture in the city, it wasn’t who I was. But Dan didn’t pressure me, he didn’t try to change me and maybe that’s why we lasted, why I fell so hard.”

Peter fiddled with his glass, looking at the amber liquid like it held the secrets of the universe.

“I didn’t try to change him either – so I guess I deluded myself into thinking we had this perfect partnership, we were willing to accept each other’s limitations. It was all a lie, though.”

Neal waited for Peter to continue.

“Like I said, Dan and I were together for four years. We didn’t live together, but we did everything together. He’d go to Yankee games with me because I enjoyed them. I went clubbing with Dan because he loved to dance. We made room for each other, if that makes any sense.”

“Yes, it does. You shared a life – you wanted to make each other happy.” Neal tamped down the rising jealousy. “You loved him, he loved you and that’s what you do for someone you love.”

Peter nodded. “Things seemed to be going perfectly – at home, at work. I’d been given my own task force, and Dan – unbelievably – got promoted again, this time to captain. We finally started talking about living together. I was so fucking smug – thinking that we had the rest of our lives mapped out. I even started day dreaming about a commitment ceremony, believe it or not. Everything was Dan and I this, Dan and I that, and he went right along with it, playing into my perfect domestic fantasies.”

Peter wiped his mouth, pausing like he needed to find the right words – the ones that wouldn’t tear him apart.

“It fell apart in a single day in March. What’s the line, ‘Beware the Ides of March’? FBI agents have to have a yearly physical, the usual stuff to make sure that you’re still fit for field duty. The blood work is pretty routine: cholesterol, thyroid function, blood sugar, and apparently some sexually transmitted diseases.

“About a week after I had the physical, I went for the follow up, figuring that the doctor’s going to tell me I need to watch my cholesterol, lose a few pounds. But no, he tells me I have syphilis, and that this was the first time it showed up in my blood work. The infection was recent, at least since my physical the previous year. I remember looking at him like he was crazy. How the hell could I have an STD? I’ve only had one partner for the last four years.”

Neal didn’t know what to say; he could only imagine Peter’s horror. And even though he’d forgiven Peter for the terrible words he’d flung at him that night, it wasn’t until this moment that he understood what made him say them.

“Of course, a shot of penicillin took care of the infection. I’d have to have another blood test, naturally, but the doctor kept stressing how it was more important that I get in touch with all my sex partners over the last year and let them know they’d been exposed. Even though everyone worried about AIDS, common VD – the stuff we were warned about in high school health class – was still a public health issue.”

Peter stopped talking, and the silence echoed with his anguish.

“You don’t have to do this, Peter. You don’t have to tell me anymore of it.”

The gratitude in Peter’s eyes was heartbreaking, but he again refused to stop. “I have to, it hurts but I have to.”

Neal reached out, taking hold of Peter’s hands. They were still icy cold, but he didn’t think it was from the contact with the window. “Then tell me.”

“I didn’t know what to do. Of course, the doctor insisted on doing an AIDS test – he even had the equipment for a rapid result. It was negative, thank god. I left the doctor’s office and just wandered for hours. It seemed too impossible to believe. I tried to think of any other possibility, any other way I could have gotten infected. All of the old stories – the ones that you hear as a kid – sitting on a toilet seat, touching a doorknob, I thought maybe there was some truth to that. Anything but admitting that the man I loved, the only man I’d been with for four years, had been cheating on me.

“It was late when I got home. There was a message from Dan on my answering machine. He had to work late, but he’d be over tomorrow – we’d have pizza and watch the Knicks-Heat game.

“I don’t know – there was something in his voice, something that made me think he was lying. It could have been all in my head, after all.”

“What did you do?”

“I – I paced around my apartment, I listened to Dan’s message over and over, obsessively trying to pick out anything that would tell me what he was _really_ doing. Half the time, it sounded like he was in his office at One Police Plaza, the other half, I was convinced he’d called me from a pay phone on the street.” Peter let out a bemused chuckle. “It was 1998 and neither of us had cell phones yet. Pagers were standard issue, but not cell phones.

“Anyway – I finally made up my mind that I was going to have to talk to Dan that night. I was going to go over to apartment and wait for him to get home. There was no point in just sitting and stewing. I needed answers.”

“Did he give them to you?”

“No – or yes, well – yeah. I got the answers I was looking for, but not the way I was looking for them. I thought I was heading over to Dan’s apartment, but I found myself in the East Village instead. There was a dance club we’d go to, it was mostly gay, but a lot of girls liked it too – ”

Neal knew where this was going, he felt sick – like he was watching an accident he couldn’t prevent.

“It was still early – I don’t know what I thought I was going to find. You know the night life in New York, nothing really starts until after ten and it was still only a little before nine. But the club’s front door was open and I’d gotten out of my suit, so I guess I looked like I fit in and no one stopped me.

“I wish they had – I really wish they had. The main room was mostly empty, but I knew I wouldn’t find Dan in there. I went into the back, behind the stage – there was this area that was pretty notorious.” Peter stopped and closed his eyes, and Neal could see the tears start to form.

Peter didn’t stop, though. “Dan was there, he was screwing a woman – going at her like a jackhammer, holding onto her tits, playing with her nipples, and talking to her like they were making a porno movie. He kept telling her how tight and wet her cunt was, how much he _loved_ pussy, he could never get enough of it. That he was going to shoot his load in her and eat it out of her.”

“Peter – ”

“No – I have to finish this.” Peter pulled his hand out of Neal’s and reached for the Scotch, emptying the glass. “Sorry – I …”

“Nothing to apologize for, please.”

“I didn’t stay, I didn’t interrupt them. I just left. What was I going to do, confront him while he still had his dick in some bimbo?” Peter shook his head. “No – that’s not fair. Whoever the woman was, she doesn’t deserve my contempt.”

“You’re far more generous than I’d be.”

“Believe me, it’s taken me a lot of work and time to get to this point, Neal.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Telling Neal was not easier, despite what his therapist had said. It was so much worse, and not just for the compassion he saw in Neal’s eyes, how he shared his pain.

The only thing that kept him going was Neal’s rock-steady presence.

“What did you do?”

“I went to Dan’s place – it wasn’t that far from the club where I’d found him. I wanted to tear the place apart; I wanted to be like some stereotypical vengeful spouse, destroying everything that mattered to him.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, of course not. I had _some_ self-control left. But I packed up my stuff – after nearly four years, I’d left a lot of my things there. It was one of the reasons why we’d really decided that it was time to buy a place together. I’d go crazy looking for a suit jacket, only to find I’d left it at Dan’s. He’d do the same thing. And since we were both working in Lower Manhattan, we thought it was time to try and find a place together. It just made sense. We’d even looked at a few high rises in Jersey City and Hoboken.”

Peter realized he’d gotten diverted. “Sorry, you really don’t want to hear about the real estate saga.”

“It’s all part of the story, Peter. Tell me as much as you can bear.”

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath and continued. “Anyway – I packed up everything. Clothes, books, stuff – whatever I brought with me, but I wanted nothing that we’d bought together. None of the movies or the music and definitely none of the pictures of us. I knew that when I walked out of there, I wanted no reminders. Everything was piled up in a couple of garbage bags and I put them outside, in the hallway. When I finished telling Dan we were done, I could just leave. I was such a fucking Boy Scout, always prepared.

“I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait, and the waiting was the worst of all, thinking about everything – all the good times, all the hopes and plans, and realizing that none of those plans really meant a thing to Dan.”

“You think he didn’t love you – that he’d spent four years with you as a lie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it was a lie – that he was stringing me along – I think he cared for me, but the future wasn’t important to him.”

Neal’s anger was gratifying, and in a way, almost amusing. “If he cared for you, he wouldn’t have cheated on you, he wouldn’t have infected you. He would have been honest with you if he really cared.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he cared as much as he could. I realized, sitting there and waiting for him, that Dan was a risk junkie. That he thrived on the edge. Hell, the night I rescued him, he’d set the whole thing up, knowing that he was in for a beat down. Most risk junkies get their fix with extreme sports – BASE jumping, free climbing – or they take jobs that put them in danger every day. I think, if Dan wasn’t gay and wasn’t so fucking ambitious, he’d have probably been a fireman or worked as a beat cop in some high-crime precinct. But he liked the accolades as much as the adrenaline.”

“So he indulged in high-risk sex,” Neal said, his voice filled with contempt. “He betrayed you and for what?”

“Yeah – I know, I know.”

“I hope you beat the shit out of him when he came home.”

“No, I didn’t. I thought about it, but that’s not who I am. I just wanted to tell him it was over, I wanted to be done. I didn’t want a confrontation. But it was inevitable. Dan came in about an hour after I’d finished packing. He cursed as he tripped over the bags I left in the hallway.

“I just sat there and watched him…

_“What the fuck…” Dan finally realized that there was someone in his apartment and he went for his service weapon._

_“Don’t shoot, it’s me.”_

_“Peter? What…?” The emotions that crossed Dan’s face weren’t hard to decipher – confusion, annoyance, guilt, even anger. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?”_

_“Oh, I got your message. But I don’t think you were working late.”_

_“Huh? I just got done – there were some problems with an investigation. A witness came forward and it might exonerate one of the cops on the Galeki bust.”_

_Dan sounded so sincere, and if Peter hadn’t seen him at the club, he might just have believed him. Well, he would have if he hadn’t been told he had syphilis that afternoon._

_“I saw you.”_

_“Saw me, where?”_

_“At the Hi-Line, about two hours ago. You had your dick in a woman, going at her like a dog on a bitch in heat, all the while telling her how much you loved tight pussy.”_

_Dan turned bright red. “You were following me? You were spying on me? You have no right – ”_

_“I guess the old saying is true, ‘the best defense is a good offense.’ I wasn’t following you, I wasn’t spying on you – ”_

_Dan opened his mouth to speak, but Peter interrupted him. “Don’t even think about telling me you were fucking her for a case.”_

_Both men lapsed into silence._

_“Then why were you there?”_

_“I was looking for you.”_

_Dan collapsed into the chair next to Peter’s. “I left you a message, I was working late. Why were you looking for me at the Hi-Line?”_

_Peter didn’t feel the need to hold back. “I had my annual physical last week. They always do blood work and I got called back to the doctor’s office. It seems that I somehow contracted syphilis. And since you’re my only partner…” He left the rest unsaid._

_“Peter – ”_

_“Don’t, Dan. Don’t lie to me, not anymore.”_

_“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere, but Peter didn’t care about sincerity._

_“I’m sure you are, now that you’ve been found out.” Peter was proud of how calm he sounded. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re bi?”_

_The other man shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant. I like fucking women, but I love you. What happened back there, who else I screw doesn’t change that – I’ll always love you.”_

_Peter waved a hand, as if to disperse the words. “Three years ago, you asked me for a commitment and you’ve been fucking around on me all that time, haven’t you? And I have to wonder, since you gave me syphilis, how much of your screwing has been bareback.”_

_“I’ve never been with another man without a condom.”_

_Peter didn’t think he could be hurt even more, but hearing Dan admit to an even greater infidelity with such casualness was like a bullet wound. “I’m supposed to take comfort in that! You’ve been screwing women **and** other men!”_

_“It’s not like I cared about any of them. And you have to believe me – I wouldn’t put you at risk.”_

_“You know what, Dan – I don’t believe you. You thrive on risk and you don’t really think about anything but the next fix. ”_

_“I love you, Peter – ”_

_“Love! You have a funny way of showing it. You’ve given me World Series tickets, a reproduction Motherwell, and a sexually transmitted disease.”_

_Is if it would make a difference, Dan said, “It’s not like syphilis is incurable.”_

_“But AIDS is.” Peter paused, waiting for that to sink in. “Just so you know, I was tested this afternoon and thank God, I’m clean. But I’ll be getting retested every month for a long time because I can’t trust a word that comes out of your mouth."_

_Peter got up to leave. There was nothing more that Dan could say that he wanted to hear. “Get yourself to a clinic, and get some penicillin. Then tell everyone else you’ve fucked that you’ve given them the clap.”_

_Dan got up too and grabbed him. “Can’t we work this out? I’ll go into therapy – I’ll get help. I’m – I’m a sex addict. There’s treatment for that. I don’t want to lose you, Peter. I love you.”_

_He was merciless, he had to be. “You are an addict, but I don’t think your problem is sex. It’s the high you get from taking chances and you’re never going to stop, not until you hit bottom. We’re done, Daniel. I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough for you, that you need what I can’t give you.”_

_“Peter – please.”_

_“Don’t beg, Dan. Just – don’t.” His heart was shattered but he wasn’t going to give into the heartbreak. Not yet, hopefully not ever. “I’ll pack your stuff up and leave it in the lobby – if you don’t collect it, it’ll get tossed. I never want to see you again; I never want to hear from you again.”_

_Peter yanked his arm free and walked out the door._

“Peter – ” Neal tried to hold onto him, but he needed some distance.

“That wasn’t the last time I saw Dan.”

“He tried to get back together?”

“Yeah – he called me a few times. I had my number changed to an unlisted one. He sent me a few letters. I wrote ‘Return to Sender’ on all of them. I wanted nothing to do with him. I had no room in my heart for forgiveness.”

“What he did was unforgivable.” Neal sounded so adamant, so sure.

“Maybe – I know that I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him, hearing his voice and knowing that even if he really did love me, he never understood me, he never …” Peter couldn’t find the words around the pain that suddenly seemed so fresh. This time, when Neal came to stand behind him, when he rested a hand against his back, Peter allowed himself to be soothed.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?” Peter was almost afraid of what Neal was going to ask.

“That night, at Reese and Elizabeth’s – when I told you I wanted to hurt the man who damaged you so badly, you said I couldn’t, that he was dead. How?”

That was the question he was afraid of. “Like I said, I saw Dan again – just one more time. About eighteen months after I left him, I got a call from a social worker at Mount Sinai hospital. Dan was in the hospice unit there, and I’d been listed as his agent on his health care proxy. They had a copy of his living will and he’d specified that he wanted no extraordinary measures taken to extend his life, but they needed me to sign off on removing him from a ventilator.”

Peter could feel the shock of discovery as if he’d just gotten that phone call. “I’d forgotten, a few months before I found out just what he was, back when we were beginning to think about intertwining our lives, we made out living wills and health care proxies, naming the other as the person to make the end of life decisions. Can you guess what Dan was dying from?”

“AIDS?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure that one out. The antiretrovirals that were like miracle to others weren’t working on him. Or maybe he figured that this was one more knife edge he could ride and never bothered getting tested or taking the medications.”

“You went to see him?”

“Yeah, I had to. He was terminal – it was a matter of days at that time. He was on a vent and a feeding tube, and at the point where only extraordinary means would keep him alive. It was a matter of days, a week at the most. The hospice people wanted to know if I would be able to make a decision to remove him from life support.”

“It was like looking at a corpse from a concentration camp. He weighed maybe 75 pounds and was covered in sarcomas. But he was still awake, still aware, and even though he was probably out of his mind from the pain and the cancer eating him up, his eyes – ”

Peter finally broke. He hadn’t when he’d told Dr. Teller, he’d been remarkably dry-eyed in her office. Now, though, he couldn’t say it, he couldn’t – all he could do was sob, the grief was gut wrenching and terrible.

Neal wrapped his arms around him, trying to give as much solace as he could. “Shhh, it’s done. It’s over. You don’t have to say anything more.”

But he did, he had to finish this. “He begged me – he was still Dan, and his eyes – he begged me to have the machines turned off.”

“And did you?”

Peter nodded. “I wanted to be vengeful; I wanted him to suffer because I suffered. I wanted – but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to him. I never forgave him, but I couldn’t let him suffer for a moment longer. I stood there and watched as the nurses removed the tubes, turned off the machines, until there was just the heart rate monitor and then that just stopped. He died. I stood by his bed and watched him die.”

Neal was crying, he didn’t care that the tears were pouring down his face. He’d lost friends to the plague. Who hadn’t? But no one with whom he’d been that close to, never a lover, never someone who had held his heart. Peter wasn’t crying, though. He looked wrecked, but his eyes were dry.

“I didn’t go to his funeral, Neal. I – I couldn’t. I was still so angry, even after watching him suffer like that. I was angry and all I could think about were the lies and the dreams he destroyed.”

“I can understand.”

“I was also angry that he left me, that he did this to himself. And I was angry at myself, too.”

“Why? You were blameless – he cheated, he lied and he didn’t care what happened to you.”

“I think it was survivor guilt – I left him, maybe if I stayed and tried to work things out, he wouldn’t have gotten sick. Or if he did, he wouldn’t have had to die like that.”

“Or maybe he would have dragged you into a never ending spiral of addiction and failed recovery, Peter. Maybe he would have infected you.” Neal wasn’t crying anymore. His tears were for Peter and his pain and loss, not for the man who brought such agony.

“I don’t know – it’s likely. But I’ve learned something.” Peter gave him a gentle smile. “I’ve learned that I can’t live for the past, I can’t live as if the past is present. Dan made his choices, I made mine. He’s been dead fourteen years and I’ve finally been able to start moving past it.”

Peter went back to the windows and Neal joined him. The city lights drowned even the brightest stars, but the moon hung there, like an ornament on a Christmas tree.

Neal wondered, though, where they were going to go from here. He still loved Peter, he wanted a future with him more than ever and he was willing to take this man in whatever state he was in, heartbroken or heart-whole.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He wanted to tell Neal that he loved him; that he always had. The words had been on the tip of his tongue since the afternoon, watching Reese and El say their vows. Or maybe he’d wanted to say them as far back as October.

No, it wasn’t then. Peter knew when he first wanted to tell Neal the true nature of his feelings, and it was at the very beginning. That first morning, but back then, it seemed improbable and impetuous and downright stupid.

Peter knew, looking at things objectively, that despite his cruelty and his anger, he hadn’t killed Neal’s affection. That night at Reese and Elizabeth’s, Neal had asked him if reconciliation was possible. Back in October, after the party, Neal even said that they couldn’t move forward until Peter was able to tell him the whole story.

But now, after he’d laid bare his soul and displayed his wounds, he couldn’t stop wondering, worrying that he’d never be able to get back what he once had with Neal. And then it struck him: he didn’t want that. He didn’t want the vague feelings of insecurity, the need to compartmentalize his relationship with Neal away from the rest of his life. He wanted so much more, he knew – if Neal shared his feelings – he could give this man all the love he deserved.

Something must have shown on his face, because Neal asked, “What’s the matter?”

Peter knew he was being reckless, but if ever there was a moment in his life where he needed to take a risk, this was it. “I know it’s probably not the right moment, after everything I’ve just told you, but there’s one more thing you need to know. I love you, Neal. I always did, and I always will.”

The seconds stretched out into eternity, and then that eternity collapsed on itself like a star going supernova. “I love you too, and I don’t think anything will ever change that. I forgave you, long before you apologized. Probably before I saw you at Reese and Elizabeth’s. And you’ve done what I’ve asked, you’ve entrusted me with the truth. But right now, I can’t help but wonder if – ” Neal’s hesitation was painfully honest. “If you’ll ever be able to trust me. If you’d ever stop wondering if I didn’t want something more.”

This was something Peter had never thought about, what the next steps in their lives would be. “My heart is certain that I love you. That much I know. I’ve learned that what I said to you that night, my anger then, my need to compartmentalize, was a product of my past. Can I promise that I’m never going to behave like an asshole again, that I’m never going to wonder and worry and act out my insecurities? I wish I could, but to use the hackneyed expression, I’m a work in progress. I was wearing my pain for so long, it became comfortable, easy. I’m naked, now. It hurts to be so exposed and I keep thinking how easy it would be to just put on the old clothes, to fall back into the old habits.”

“I can understand that.”

“But?”

“No buts, Peter. I want to move forward with you. I just wanted you to understand what I’m feeling, too.”

Peter nodded, “Of course. It would be foolish to think that we could just go back to where we were. And you know what? I don’t want that. You deserve better than that.”

Neal’s lips twitched, as if he was fighting a smile.

“Something funny?”

“Sort of. We keep using that word.”

“What word?”

“‘Deserve’. It’s almost like a theme song for us.”

Peter thought back, realizing that Neal was right. How many times had he used that term over the past few months? _Too many._

The stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the city lights. Peter broke the silence. “Thank you, Neal.”

He turned and looked at Peter. “For what?”

“For everything. For your forgiveness, for being the man you are. For listening to me. Hell, for giving me a reason to face what I’d been denying for so long. For still loving me, despite your very valid reservations.” _Damn, now he started to cry?_ Neal leaned into him and Peter relished the familiar warmth of him. “I should go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Home. It’s late.”

Neal’s expression was grave. “It’s not that late, Peter.”

He looked at his watch, surprised to see that it was barely eight PM. “It feels like it’s close to midnight.”

“We’ve been through a lot today. Want dinner?”

Truthfully, he wanted some fresh air, something to clear the emotion and Scotch-induced fog from his brain. He still needed to tell Neal about London, anyway. “Sound’s good. My treat.”

“Sure, why not?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was still freezing out, the wind was like a knife, but Neal didn’t notice. Happiness was lighting him up from the inside, even though it was tinged with wariness. But the cold, dark spots weren’t that cold, that dark anymore, because hope was there, too.

There was another hurdle, though. One of his own making, and he wasn’t sure how he could handle it without hurting Peter, without unraveling the fragile peace they’d just wrought.

The diner on the corner of 81st and Broadway was a beacon for the cold and the hungry, but Neal was a familiar face and the hostess ushered them to a small table in the back. The coffee was industrial strength, but it was hot and the addition of cream and sugar made it palatable.

“The usual, hon?”

Neal nodded and when Peter asked what the usual was, he said “Scrambled eggs, bacon and buttered toast. You remember, sometimes I like to have breakfast for dinner.”

“Yeah, of course I do.” Peter turned to the waitress. “You know, that sounds good, I’ll have the same.”

The waitress disappeared with their order.

“I – ”

“I’ve – ”

The laughed as they started talking at the same time. Peter gestured for him to go first.

Neal plowed forward, “I have something I need to tell you.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not terrible, but it’s something that might be a problem.”

“You’re seeing someone else?” There was a sad inevitability in Peter’s response.

Neal was quick to reassure him. “No, oh god, no! Nothing like that. I just … ” He paused, then plunged forward. “A few months ago, one of my mentors from culinary school contacted me – he was opening up a small, private pastry school and asked me to help him. To teach.”

Peter smiled, clearly relieved at the news. “That’s wonderful. You must be excited.”

“I am, but the school is in London. Classes start the third week in January. I’ll be in England until late May.” Neal waited for Peter’s dismay, it didn’t come. The other man just sat there, an odd and indecipherable look on his face.

“Look – I didn’t mean to lead you on, and I’d get out of it if I could. But I can’t – do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a temporary work visa, even for a teaching gig?”

Peter still didn’t say anything; he just sat there and started laughing. It wasn’t bitter or angry and there was genuine pleasure in the tone. He started shaking his head, almost as if he was denying something.

“Peter? What’s going on?”

“Those conniving bastards. Those conniving, well-meaning, match-making bastards.”

“What are you talking about. _Who_ are you talking about?”

Peter struggled to catch his breath. “My partner, Reese Hughes. Your boss, his new wife, Elizabeth. Your landlady and my client and friend, June Ellington. They’ve been pulling my strings and I didn’t even see it.”

Neal sat there, blinking.

“June came up to me at the party in October and said we needed to talk. It seemed that a major museum in London is doing a massive retrospective of 20th Century American urban artists, and they want to include a few dozen of Byron’s most famous works. June asked me to coordinate directly with the museum, and it would be best if I did it from London. It would save her a lot of worry, since many of the paintings that the museum wants are in her private collection. I told her I’d consider it, and then Reese told me that June’s timing couldn’t be better, since we’re attracting a global clientele now, and we should seriously think about setting up a satellite office in Europe. London would be the best place, as it’s become a hub for the international art market.”

Neal couldn’t believe what he’s hearing. Well, actually, he could. June had told him about the London exhibition, but of course, she’d never mentioned any of the business details. Neal had even offered to help her out, but she just patted his cheek and told him he was so sweet. She had business managers to oversee these things.

“Elizabeth told me that I needed to get out of New York, I needed a fresh start, a chance to get out of my rut. I’d never be able to do that as long as I stayed here. That this was an opportunity I should seize with both hands. I could have told June that I didn’t need to live in London to manage the collection, and Reese’s idea seemed a bit, well, too pie-in-the-sky for him, but Elizabeth was insistent, implacable. She was like water on a stone, wearing me down in the most gentle of ways.”

Neal shook his head, this was almost too much. “I’ve always known that El was more than a little devious, but I have to say, that’s a master stroke even for her.” He laughed. “So – we are both going to London. Why do I have the feeling that our three matchmakers weren’t going to leave it up to chance that we’d just happen meet up in that great metropolis?”

“Because they are wicked and devious and they absolutely wouldn’t leave that to chance?” Peter grinned. “Where are you going to be living in London?”

“June just happens to have a house in Bloomsbury, off of Russell Square. Byron bought it in the sixties, and she’d been renting it out. But a few years ago, when she started traveling with her granddaughters, she let it go vacant and has been using it as a second home. She told me it has four bedrooms and it’s big enough that I wouldn’t be in the way when she and the girls were in London.” Neal could see this coming from miles away. “Don’t tell me, June offered you the house in Bloomsbury?”

“Of course she did. I was going over there at her insistence, this was the very least she could do.” Peter eyes were sparkling. “You know, after everything before – after everything I told you, I still couldn’t figure out how to tell you that I was going to be out of New York for the next six months.”

“That’s exactly what was going through my mind – I put you through all kinds of hell and then I’d tell you, ‘Oh, by the way – I’m going to England for six months.’ I felt like such a bastard.”

“Hey, my therapist thought I should wait until after I came back to talk to you. Little did we know …”

“Yeah, little did we know we were a pair of marionettes on the strings of master puppeteers.”

The waitress came back with their food. Neal found he was ravenous, hungry like he hadn’t been for months. The way Peter was wolfing down his own eggs, he wondered if he felt the same.

When they were together, before, they’d talk through dinner – food growing cold as they discussed anything and everything under the sun. But tonight, Neal was inclined to silence, and Peter, the same. Maybe it was all the words that had been said before.

As they waited for the check, a thought occurred to him. “You’re okay with this, right? I’m sort of making a huge assumption here.”

“Okay with what?”

“That we’re going to be together in London, in the same house.” Neal licked his lips.

“I’m probably the one who should ask _you_ that, since you were the one who made the plans initially. I’m just the victim of Reese, Elizabeth and June’s good-intentioned manipulations.

Neal felt shy suddenly. “It’s a pretty huge step – going right from reconciliation to living together.”

“And you’re not without reservations.” Peter took his hand and squeezed it gently, “Rightly so.”

“And June says, the house is big – so we don’t have to live on top of each other.” Neal was thinking that if he had to sleep alone for more than a week, he’d go crazy. And he was probably crazy for even thinking that.

“You’ll be working, so will I.” Peter noted, the voice of reason and maturity. “It not like we’ll be spending every waking minute together.”

“That’s true.”

The waitress came back with the check, and as he’d promised earlier, Peter took it and joked. “Jeez, Caffrey, you’re a cheap date.”

There was a crowd at the door and they fought their way out.

“Damn, it’s cold.” Peter went to the curb, and he looked like he was about to hail a cab.

Neal wondered at his sense of self-preservation. It seemed even more non-existent tonight than usual. “Come back with me. Stay the night.”

Peter turned to look at him, his deep eyes glowing under the street lights. “Neal – ”

“I don’t want to watch you drive away tonight.” The walls between them were falling down. “I can sleep on the couch – but I just don’t want this to end.”

Peter touched his face. “I don’t either.” His breath steamed in the icy air. “You’re not going to sleep on the couch, unless you want to.”

Neal shook his head. “No – I don’t. I’ve missed you too much. I don’t think I can wait any longer. I’m not sure that this is the best thing for us, but I’m certain that if we’re going to share a life, I want that life to start now.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The apartment was almost too warm after the frigid air outside, but Peter just stood there, making no attempt to get comfortable, to settle in. He had to ask again, “Are you sure about this, Neal? Maybe we should take this slower?”

“I’m as sure of this as I am of my name. I don’t want to wait. I want you – I want to make love with you, tonight.”

Neal sounded so certain, so sure of his heart. Could he do anything but trust it?

“Are you going to stay?” Neal bit his lip.

Peter nodded and took off his coat and then his suit jacket. “If I stay, I may never leave.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Neal’s smile was sweetness itself.

“We’ll be sharing a house in London – that just a few weeks away.”

“A few weeks that feels like forever, Peter. Do you really want to wait that long?” Neal rested his hands on Peter’s shoulders, as if to anchor him here.

He shook his head. “No, no I don’t.” He slid his own hands underneath Neal’s suit jacket, almost intoxicated by the heat, the never-forgotten strength of him. He took the jacket off, tossing it onto the couch, then pulled Neal’s tie loose. He fumbled with the buttons and pushed Neal’s hands out of the way when he started to undress himself. “No – tonight I do this for you.”

Buttons undone, the shirt joined Neal’s tie and jacket. He looked at Neal, awed as he’d always been by his physical perfection, but he knew that even without those gifts, he would still love him, still want him. It was the perfection of his spirit, the generosity of his soul that Peter loved more than his beauty.

His palms caressed the warm skin and the dense muscles on Neal’s shoulders; they trailed down his back, fingers caressing, teasing as they reached the ticklish flesh at his waist, lingering at the waistband of his trousers. As much as his teasing aroused Neal, it aroused him even more. Peter growled and cupped his hands on Neal’s hips, pulling them close. The fine wool did nothing to shield the heat or soften the hardness as they rubbed against each other. Peter’s hands were busy at Neal’s fly, undoing his belt, the button, finally lowering the zipper. He was so desperate to feel bare flesh that he might have ripped the fabric apart if it didn’t cooperate. The trousers fell to the floor and Neal, ever graceful, stepped out of them and toed off his shoes in the same movement.

“Let me take care of you tonight.” Peter whispered and stroked his fingers down the side of Neal’s cheek. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

“You’ve shown me, Peter – you’ve put yourself through hell. I love you and that will never change.”

Peter threaded his fingers through Neal’s hair, bringing him close, kissing him with all the longing, the need that had been building since he’d seen him on the loading dock at the Hudson, when he found the courage to ask him if there was a way they could go forward. When Neal kissed him and promised him a possibility.

“Come – ” Peter held out a hand, drawing Neal towards his bed. It was both familiar and strange and it felt like the first time. Like he’d been reborn under this man’s regard. He sat Neal on the bed and knelt before him, pulling off his socks, rubbing away the marks on his skin before pressing a soft kiss on each ankle.

Neal laughed and the sound was so joyous. “That tickles. Have you developed a foot fetish, Mr. Burke?”

“Only for yours, Mr. Caffrey. Only for you.”

His lips and tongue trailed up Neal’s calves, over each knee, only stopping when he reach his thighs and the band of black cotton barred his contact with marble-smooth flesh. “Lie back.” Peter reinforced his command with a gentle push and Neal reclined across the bed, arms above his head like some fantastic captive.

A swift tug and the boxer-briefs were off, Neal was naked and his. Only his. The possessiveness struck a sour note. He did his best not to think in those terms. They were both captives, willing slaves to each other.

Neal leaned up on one elbow and looked at him, his eyes glowing in the semi-darkness. “Why are you still wearing so many clothes?”

“Because – ” Peter gave a wry smile, “I’m an idiot.”

“Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to do this?” Neal sat up and grabbed him by his tie, pulling him down onto the bed on top of him. “Or this?” Although he had six inches on Neal and at least twenty pounds, all of it muscle and bone, Neal and the advantage of surprise and flipped them over, straddling Peter.

He struggled, but not too much. After all, this wasn’t a contest. Regardless of who was on top or on bottom, they would both be winners. Neal gave him a wicked smile and took his damn time loosening his tie, undoing the complicated double Windsor like he was performing some kind of reverse striptease. He tugged and the band of silk slid out from his collar inch by inch. Of all the things to be aroused by…

The last bit came free and Neal was about to toss it aside when Peter grabbed it from him and then held it back out to him.

“Peter?”

He licked his lips. “Tie me up. Tie my hands to the headboard.”

Back when they were first together, Peter had once told Neal that he was unremittingly vanilla – but if there was anything he wanted to try, he should ask. Neal had made a joke about wanting to try out Peter’s old handcuffs and then nixed the idea, telling him that what he really liked was sex and a lot of it, as frequently as possible – but toys and games were weren’t his thing.

Tonight, though, Neal seemed to understand what Peter was asking. This wasn’t about bondage for the sake of kink. It was about trust and faith and Peter giving himself into Neal’s keeping.

“You really want this?”

“Yes – please. I wanted to take care of you – but I think now, I want you to do what you want with me.”

Neal sat back, his face unreadable in the dimmed light. Peter’s heart sank just a bit when Neal shook his head.

“I could tie you to the headboard, blindfold you and play you like a grand piano. But you have nothing to prove to me, Peter. You have already proven yourself – you’ve given me the hard truths and I can’t ask more of you than that.” Neal leaned forward and kissed him. “I love you and I understand you and in time, we will trust each other without question. But what we have now is not just about trust, it’s about faith that we can move forward together, that we can be honest with each other. That we can work through the problems that will come with being who we are.” Neal smiled and kissed him again. “Sorry – this is a little heavy for foreplay.”

Peter held him tight, relishing the strength and the closeness. The weight and mass of Neal in his arms dispelled the still too-strong memory of loneliness. “No, this is perfect.”

Somehow then ended up supine, legs entangled. Desire was there, but it was less urgent, sweeter. It was more about the simple miracle of being together than frantically coupling.

“You still have too many clothes on.” Neal laughed and pulled open his shirt, sending buttons scattering. “And your shoes are still on!”

“Well, you were the one who pulled me into bed.” Peter laughed too.

They managed to get Peter naked and both of them under the covers. Peter cupped his hand around Neal’s jaw and kissed him like he couldn’t get enough, like he was starving and the taste of Neal’s lips was the only thing that could satisfy his hunger, like he was bereft and Neal’s sighs of pleasure were the only sounds of comfort.

There was an inescapable darkness in him that even now tried to swallow the light and smother the joy. But Peter fought the darkness and won. He might not always win the battle, but he’d never give up without trying. He loved and was loved. He had faith in that love. It was the armor that would shield him, the sword that would pierce the darkness and let the light triumph.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**London, May**

“Byron painting that in July, 1977 – right after we had watched Harlem burn in the Blackout.”

Neal was standing with June in front of a large canvas that normally hung on the wall in the Ellington mansion’s second floor library. It was a scene depicting urban destruction. “We’d just moved into the house and it was still in terrible shape. Even before that night we had trouble with looters and vandals.”

“What did you do?” He asked.

“I sat outside the nursery and held onto a pump action shotgun – no one was going to get past me to my daughters. Byron and Ford waited downstairs with semi-automatics and as many fire extinguishers as they could get their hands on. It seemed like the world was going to end that night.” June clung to him. “But we were lucky and the worst of the violence passed us by.”

The moved on to look at the other paintings she had lent to the exhibit. There was an elderly bag lady pushing a shopping cart, her tiny dog looking out of at the viewer and wearing an expression far more sane than the one on its mistress’ face. A heroin addict pumping his veins full of poison in search of an unobtainable surcease from the intolerable pain of living. A pair of prostitutes – no older than twenty, but already ancient and worn out.

“Byron never glossed over human suffering – he didn’t believe in making his art pretty, but he always remembered that his subjects were human.”

“I hope that you said that for the exhibition catalog.”

“I most certainly did!” June had been delighted and terrified when the museum had asked her to contribute to the catalog’s text. “Sending Peter to London was the best idea I ever had – after taking you on as my tenant.”

Neal always understood why she never hold him about Peter’s past and the problems he’d had with Daniel, just as she hadn’t told Peter about his own relationships with women. She might have been unremittingly maternal, but they were adults and needed to live their lives without interference. Up to a point, apparently. He’d never called June – or Reese or Elizabeth for that matter – on her matchmaking, until now. “If I hadn’t decided to take Hale up on his offer to teach, would you have considered it?”

She shrugged. “Possibly. But I do like the idea of being your fairy godmother.”

“Just so you know, Peter and I had already resolved most of our differences before we came here.”

June zeroed in on the qualification. “Most, Neal? Not all?”

He sighed. “You can’t just wave your wand and make the past disappear. Peter and I had a lot of issues to work through. You know that.”

“And have you? Worked through them?”

“Yes, to a very great degree. And having this time – without the day-to-day pressures – has made a big difference. So, thank you.” Neal kissed June’s cheek.

They continued to wander through the galleries. It was opening night for “Twentieth Century American Urban Realism” and Byron Ellington’s paintings were the culmination of an exhibit that included The Ashcan School, George Bellows, Rockwell Kent and Edward Hopper. June, as the widow of the youngest artist represented in the showing and a witness to much of the history recorded in Byron’s works, was given special accord. Not only had she contributed to the show’s extensive catalog, but the organizers, on hearing her voice, begged her to record the audio guide.

Peter, naturally, agreed on her behalf – in exchange for a substantial donation to several New York art programs for troubled youth.

“If only Byron were here to see this. To be considered the equal to so many artists he admired.”

Neal hmmm’d in agreement. He was distracted by a familiar head of ginger hair and a pair of bright green eyes. Of all the people he’d expected to see at the opening, Sara Ellis wasn’t one of them.

He looked for Peter and wondered if they should make an early departure to avoid Sara. The two of them had come a very long way since the night Peter had stripped himself bare. But Neal wasn’t sure he wanted to put his partner’s hard-won peace of mind to the test.

June noticed his distraction and tightened her grip on his arm. “Don’t run, Neal.”

Even if she had let him go, even if he was able to find Peter and drag him out of the gallery, it was too late. Sara spotted him and was heading over to say hello.

She greeted June first, Continental-style – kisses on both cheeks. Even though they had only been together for a few months, she’d been a frequent visitor at his apartment and June had made it a point to get to know her. She had liked Sara – found her smart and funny – but had been quick to tell Neal that she wasn’t in it for long haul. And then June gave him a sharp looked and said that he wasn’t, either – at least not with Sara.

Sara didn’t know that, of course, and her eyes were warm and her arms welcoming as she hugged him and gave him a similar set of kisses.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Neal. I guess you travelled with June?”

“No, actually, I’ve been living in London for the last five months. I came over to teach a pastry course.”

“You’ve been in London all this time and you haven’t looked me up?” Sara pouted.

“I – ” _Damn, he should have run._

But Sara swatted at him. “I’m teasing you. I’ve been living almost everywhere _but_ London. Things really took off for me.”

Neal had no clue – he’d long since stopped paying attention to the fashion world. “I guess being Matthew Keller’s muse has worked out for you.”

“Oh, that creep is long gone from my life. I don’t know how you ever put up with him – he’s a talentless hack.”

Neal blinked. Not that he disagreed with that assessment, but he was just surprised to hear it from Sara. “So – if not Matthew, than who?”

“I have a contract with Laurent St. Martin – one of the real couturier houses in Paris. I’m not modeling any more. They’ve hired me to design a line.”

Neal remembered, vaguely, that Sara had ambitions in that area. “That’s marvelous.”

“But you’re thinking that it’s quite a leap, from cover girl to designer, right?”

Neal nodded.

She lifted her shoulders in an elegant gesture. “I know – and everyone probably thinks I’m nothing more than window dressing … but if Victoria Beckham can get respect from the fashion world, so can I.”

Neal listened to Sara with half an ear. June had gone off to talk with one of the museum’s more royal patrons. He was looking for Peter, hoping that Peter wouldn’t find him.

“So – what about you? We really didn’t get much of a chance to talk when I saw you at the Met.”

“I – uh – ” Peter was on the other side of the gallery, chatting with someone Neal thought he should recognize.

“Your boyfriend seemed a little intense, though.” Sara had always known the score regarding his sexuality.

“Peter’s a good man; we’re actually in London together. He’s been representing June’s interests in the show.”

“Ah – I was just a little, well, worried. Matthew behaved like such a fucking punk – ” Sara covered her mouth and looked around, hoping she wasn’t overheard. “Sorry. It really seemed like the shithead was out to cause problems that night. And there were some rumors … ” She trailed off.

“It’s okay. Peter and I, we’re good. Nothing to worry about.” Neal kept looking over Sara’s shoulder, at Peter. His heart stuttered a bit when Peter caught his eye. Neal gave him a quick, bright smile and decided that acting like he was doing something wrong was the worst possible behavior. “Come on; let me introduce you properly this time.”

Neal guided Sara through the glittering throngs, over to Peter. His partner had a surprised expression, but to Neal’s instant relief, he didn’t seem upset.

“You remember Sara Ellis?” Neal stepped closer to Peter and snaked an arm around his waist.

“Of course I do. We met last summer – at the Met Gala.” Peter gave her a casual smile.

Sara smiled back at Peter, “And you recognized me from a magazine cover.”

“Right. Are you still with – ” Peter snapped his fingers, as if he couldn’t remember a name “Keller? The designer?”

“Nah, like I told Neal, I dumped his untalented ass. He kept calling me fat.”

Both men blinked and simultaneously said, “Huh? You?”

“Yeah – and frankly – I’d been getting that from a few of the photographers, too.” She smoothed a hand over her hip that looked far too bony.

“Sara’s working for a designer house in Paris, now.” Neal informed Peter, who nodded gravely – as if this was the most important information he’d ever been given.

“I trust you have good legal and financial representation, Sara.”

Neal watched and listened as the two of them started talking about investments and taxes and pensions. Peter handed her his card, and she kissed both of them. But before she walked off, Sara turned to Neal, with an expression on her face that could best be called “puppy-dog eyes”.

“Neal? Would you…”

He knew just what she was going to ask. “A double chocolate fudge cake with hazelnut cream?”

She smiled fondly. “You remember my weakness. I’ve been good for so long, and now I don’t have to be, anymore.” She paused, a considering expression on her face, then added, “While you’re at it, maybe a small marzipan rainbow cake?”

Neal laughed, “For you, Sara, anything.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Even though he was a man who didn’t give into public displays of affection, he liked how Neal kept an arm around his waist while they talked to his ex-girlfriend.

Peter knew that Neal had been anxious about his reaction when he saw him talking with Sara Ellis. He knew that the anxiety was justified, and since he was in the mood to be honest with himself, he did have a slight – _very_ slight – twinge of disquiet when he saw the two of them together. But it passed quickly, like a shadow of a bird in flight.

It was hard to believe that their time in London was almost done. Neal’s first efforts at teaching his craft had gotten off to a rocky start – the school that his old mentor, Hale, had started lacked both equipment and supplies. But Neal was resourceful and made arrangements with a former classmate from culinary school to use a hotel kitchen in exchange for his services as a pastry chef a few nights a week, at least until Hale could get his own kitchens finished and stocked.

If the classes weren’t as successful as they should have been, Neal had learned from the experience. He admitted to Peter that he liked teaching, but he preferred doing and couldn’t wait to get back to Desserts After Dark.

Peter had to ask, “Have you thought about opening up your own bakery again?”

“I have, but you know something, working for Elizabeth is better. I don’t have all the headaches of owning my own business, having to deal with the storefront and the special orders. Baker’s hours are really kind of awful, and I want a life with you.”

Peter had swallowed hard against the emotions that simple statement aroused in him. “I don’t de- ”

Neal cut him off. “You do, you deserve me, and I deserve you and we both deserve to be happy together. Got that?”

Now, standing in another museum, in another city, with Neal’s arm around his waist and exchanging meaningless pleasantries with Neal’s former girlfriend, Peter was awestruck by the distance he needed to travel to get to this point.

He watched Sara sashay off, a bemused smile on his lips.

“You okay?”

He looked at Neal, his own expression touched with concern. Peter gave him a wry smile, understanding perfectly. “I’m just fine.”

Neal held on to him as they made another complete circuit through the galleries housing the exhibition, stopping every few feet to greet friends, acknowledge bold-faced names, or actually admire the art. They walked with June for a while, until someone – an art critic, most likely – dragged her off to get her opinion on something.

“I’d say that this has been quite a successful evening, Mr. Burke.”

“I’d have to agree, Mr. Caffrey.”

“Shall we?” Neal tilted his head towards the exit.

“Why not?” They didn’t wait for June, who had decided she wanted and deserved a more luxurious stay this time and had taken a room at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair. Peter had gently argued with her that after five months together, he and Neal really didn’t need the privacy she was giving them.

June had waved away Peter’s objections. “I love the place, but honestly – those Victorian era bathrooms aren’t a lot of fun for a woman my age. I want a little luxury and a lot of pampering.”

The museum wasn’t far from the house and the night was pleasantly warm. Peter couldn’t remember ever being this happy, this content. Walking side by side with the man he loved, living a life without excuses, without the constant expectation of disappointment and betrayal.

“It’s hard to believe that it’s been five months since we arrived here.” Peter had to comment.

“Harder to believe it’s almost been a year.”

“A year?” Peter cast his mind back. “Yeah – almost a year since you and Elizabeth came and did that very delicious dog and pony show. A lot has happened since then.”

“I don’t know if I’d change anything.”

Peter understood. “My heart still aches from the pain I caused you.”

“It was worth it, to end up here, with you now.” Neal took his hand.

The house was a few short blocks from the square, and they finished the walk in peaceful silence. Neal locked up and followed Peter up the narrow staircase to the bedroom they’d taken. Even though it was the biggest of the four in the house, by modern standards, it was cramped, barely large enough for the modern queen-sized bed.

“I will be happy to go home. I miss New York.”

“You miss your closet.” Peter joked. The vastness of Neal’s wardrobe never ceased to amaze him.

“My closet, certainly. My kitchen, too. The view out my window. I even miss that little fart machine, Bugsy.”

Peter laughed. “That he is. I wonder if June travels so much just to escape his gas.” He hung up his tuxedo jacket and pulled off the black silk bow tie before removing his cufflinks. Getting out of formalwear was as big a pain in the ass as putting it on. He struggled with the tiny buttons on the shirt, aggravated and impatient to be free of the heavily starched cotton.

“Stop, stop…” Neal shook his head. “I dress you, I undress you. I have to wonder how you manage to get out the door every day.” Neal’s own dress shirt was unbuttoned and pulled free from his trousers, giving Peter a tantalizing display of smooth ivory flesh.

He chuckled. “I know – I’m pretty damn helpless. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His tone was joking, but the words came from his heart.

Neal kissed him and stepped back. Peter thought maybe he was going to take them over to the bed – a most welcome destination. Instead, Neal took his hand and raised it to his lips. “I was going to wait until we got back home, were settled into a routine, but …” Neal paused and looked him in the eyes.

“But?” Peter had no idea where this conversation was going.

_“PeterBurkewillyoumarryme?”_

The words rushed out, barely intelligible and Neal’s hands, still holding his, had gone clammy. He wasn’t even sure he heard what he thought he heard. “Neal?”

“Will you marry me?” Neal repeated slowly. He stood there, his eyes filled with hope.

Peter didn’t think twice, he didn’t need to think at all. This was the question he’d wanted to ask but wasn’t sure if Neal was ready to take that step or if he even wanted to make such a commitment. “Yes, yes and yes.” He lifted Neal’s palm to his lips and kissed it. “I would be humbled and honored to be your husband.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Epilogue**

Reese raised his glass in a toast to them, his face just a little flushed from the champagne and the moment. “To Peter and Neal, to their happiness.” The rest of the guests echoed those words.

Peter caught his old friend’s eye and they exchanged a knowing smile. Unlike Reese’s post-ceremony celebration, he wasn’t going to be able to drag his newly wedded spouse off to the bedroom and have his wicked way with him. There were far too many people here. Besides Reese and Elizabeth, Diana and Christie had been invited, so had Clinton and his own plus-one. There was no way he could even think of leaving the young man off the guest list. If not for his suggestion to make the firm’s client event a dessert party, Peter would never have met Neal. He might have loved his Friday night cupcakes, but Neal was his life.

Arthur and Elaine were here, too. They might have been his clients, but Peter had learned a very important lesson in the dark days after he’d almost destroyed everything, that they really were his friends, too. Elaine hadn’t been nearly as gentle with him as Elizabeth when she found out what happened, but she stood by him, steadfast in the face of rumor and innuendo. The wealthy moved in tight circles, like sharks.

June stood up and lifted her glass. “In a way, I feel like I’m the mother of both grooms. I’ve known Peter for nearly twenty years, which would mean we met when I was but a girl.”

Peter nodded in agreement. “And you still are.”

But Elizabeth, a little more than slightly tipsy, asked, “Hmm, I don’t think that’s possible. If you were a girl when you met Peter, how could you be his mother?”

June waved a hand at her. “Oh, hush – don’t be so logical in the face of my vanity.”

Everyone laughed and June continued. “As I was saying.” She looked around the room and asked, “What _was_ I saying?”

Moz, who performed the ceremony for them, piped up. “You were reminiscing about your maternal feelings for both grooms.”

“Ah, yes. Neal is like a son to me, too. In a way, he’s more like Byron than like me, but that’s not a bad thing, is it?” June paused, blinking. Peter handed her his handkerchief, but she waved it off.

“Seeing these two men, watching them fall head over heels in love, then witnessing their struggles to find each other again – helping them when I could – reaffirms my faith that love is the truest strength of all.” She raised her glass. “To Peter and to Neal.”

“To Peter and to Neal!” The guests echoed the words again, to the bright ring of crystal as Peter touched his champagne flute to Neal’s. Neal leaned over and kissed him – nothing like the almost chaste kiss they’d exchanged at the end of the ceremony. This time, Neal kissed him with promise and intent and Peter wondered if maybe he could just growl at everyone and drag Neal upstairs.

He bit Neal’s lip, his own promise, and eased out of the kiss, just a little dazed. The guests – all of them – were laughing and clapping and tossing out vaguely obscene suggestions.

Neal squeezed his hand and whispered, “Just one more thing we have to do before you can go all caveman and carry me off.”

Before Peter could ask what that “one more thing” was, Blake, Neal’s apprentice baker, wheeled in a small cart with a not-so-small cake. With a flourish, he presented them with a long bladed knife.

Neal took the knife and Peter put his hand over Neal’s. They would cut the cake together. Looking down at their hands, he couldn’t help admiring his new wedding ring, the way it glimmered in the reflected light. Neal kissed him and they pressed the blade into the cake.

Neal was right when he had once told him that cutting into a cake was like having sex. They made the second cut and the piece of cake fell free.

It was perfect. It was red velvet.

_FIN_


End file.
